m 


W.  CHADWICK 


THROUGH  LOVE  TO  LIGHT 


Golden  Treasury  Series 

Each  volume  an  anthology  of  the  best  poetry  in  its  chosen 

field  of  sentiment 

J* 

The   Golden    Treasury    of  American   Songs 
and  Lyrics 
Edited  by  FREDERIC  LAWRENCE  KNOWLES 

The  Poetry  of  American  Wit  and  Humour 

Edited  by  R.   L.   PAGET 

Poems  of  American  Patriotism  from  1776  to 
J898 

Edited  by  R.  L.   PAGET 
Through  Love  to  Light 

New  illustrated  editionT  Edited  by  JOHN  WHITE 
CHADWICK  and  ANNIE  HATHAWAY  CHAD- 
WICK 

The  Two  Voices 

Edited  by  JOHN   WHITE  CHADWICK 

Pipe  and  Poucfc 

^Edited  by  JOSEPH   KNIGHT 

Out  of  the  Heart 

New  illustrated  edition.  Edited  by  JOHN  WHITE 
CHADWICK  and  ANNIE  HATHAWAY  CHAD- 
WICK 

* 

L.   C.   PAGE   &    COMPANY 
200  Summer  Street,  Boston,  Mass* 


HOPE. 

From  the  painting  by  Anton  Dvorak. 


tion  of 


to 


of 

Courage 


MADE   BY 

JOHN    WHITE    CHADWICK 

AUTHOR    OF    "  A    BOOK    OF    POEMS,"   ETC., 

AMD  COMPILER  Of  "  OUT  OF  THE  HEART," 

"THE  TWO  VOICES,"  BTC. 

AND 

ANNIE   HATHAWAY    CHADWICK 


New  Illustrated  Edition 


BOSTON       V      L.      C.      PAGE 
<&-     COMPANY     ^    MDCCCCIV 


Copyright,  1896, 
BY  JOSEPH  KNIGHT  COMPANY. 


(Colonial  Press: 

C.  H.  Simonds  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


DEDICATION. 

Good  courage  /     Yea,  my  father,  thou  hast  had 
Thy  part  in  this  on  many  a  stormy  sea, 
When  the  great  winds  were  blowing  mightily 

And  all  the  waste  of  waters  had  gone  mad 

And  struck  at  heaven;  and  when  —  most  drear  and 

sad 

Of  all  remembered  things  !  —  the  empyry 
Smiled  as  if  glad  that  such  wide  wreck  could  be, 

While  strong  men's  hearts  could  not  be  comforted. 

Now  thou  hast  gone  upon  a  voyage  far 

Beyond  the  sea-mark  of  thy  venturous  prime, 

Steering  thy  course  by  a  remoter  star 

Than  the  remotest  which  our  heavens  climb  : 

Will  thy  heart  sink,  thy  courage  fail  thee  f    NOJ 

Fearless  as  ever  thou  dost  onward  go. 

J.  W.  C. 


NOTE. 

THE  sub-title  of  our  book,  "  Songs  of  Good  Cour- 
age," must  not  be  too  rigidly  interpreted.  It 
represents,  we  trust,  its  dominant  tone,  but  the  cour- 
age we  have  sought  to  illustrate  is  of  many  kinds :  the 
courage  of  belief  is  here,  and  also  the  courage  of  doubt ; 
the  courage  of  rejoicing  faith,  and  the  courage  to  live 
grandly  and  do  well  however  that  may  be  denied.  We 
have  sought,  too,  the  things  that  make  for  courage, 
and  those,  as  well,  that  make  for  comfort  and  for 
peace.  There  are  others  which  respect  the  rights  of 
sorrow  and  give  voice  to  aching  hearts.  We  have 
trenched  as  little  as  possible  on  other  anthologies  with 
which  we  are  acquainted,  and  upon  the  familiar  clas- 
sics, but  occasionally  have  pounced  upon  our  own 
wherever  we  have  found  it,  being  unable  to  deny  our- 
selves some  things  which  we  have  loved  together  many 
years.  When  poems  have  been  taken  entire  we  have 
followed  the  authors'  titles,  but  many  of  our  pieces  are 
fragments,  and  for  these  we  have  invented  titles  which 
we  trust  the  authors  will  not  disapprove. 

Our  book  could  not  have  been  made  without  the 
kind  assistance  of  many  authors  and  publishers  who 
have  allowed  us  the  use  of  their  poems  and  their  pub- 
lications. To  the  Century  Company  we  are  particu- 
larly obliged  for  the  poems  of  R.  W.  Gilder  and  James 


vi  NOTE. 

Whitcomb  Riley;  to  Harper  and  Brothers  for  the 
three  poems  taken  from  Mr.  Howells's  "  Stops  of 
Various  Quills ; "  to  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  the 
selections  from  Sidney  Lanier;  and  to  Houghton, 
Mifflin  and  Company  for  a  wide  range  of  pieces  from 
our  major  poets  and  from  Miss  Cone,  Miss  Guiney, 
Mr.  William  Roscoe  Thayer  and  others,  later  born. 
To  Mr.  Gilder  we  are  particularly  indebted  for  his 
permission  to  use  the  initial  phrase  of  the  first  poem 
as  the  title  of  our  book. 

BROOKLYN,  May  17,  1896. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY  PAGB 

Sl«p «, 

Enamoured  Architect  of  Airy  Rhyme 35 

I  Vex  me  not  with  Brooding  on  the  Years 91 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM 

The  Touchstone x,3 

AMES,  CHARLES  G. 

Under  the  Cloud    . IO2 

ANONYMOUS. 

The  Rising  Tide 34 

Under  Gray  Clouds -,$ 

The  Better  Way '  44 

Angel  of  Pain go 

Love  and  Death I26 

ARMSTRONG,  GEORGE  F.  S. 

The  Universal  God 2g 

To  Walk  with  God *    '..'...  64 

ARNOLD,  EDWIN 

Through  Great  Tribulation  . 


129 


viii  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW  PAGB 

Light  of  Stars 43 

Intimation 68 

Morality 104 

Immortality 122 

The  Better  Time 148 

The  Deeper  Thought 170 

Is  it  so  Small  a  Thing 185 

Somewhere,  Surely 188 

Anti-Desperation 201 

BACON,  LORD? 

Integer  Vitae 157 

BARNES,  WILLIAM 

In  a  Ring 12 

BATES,  ARLO 

The  Cloud  of  Witnesses 7 

BLAKE,  WILLIAM 

>  The  Divine  Image 159 

The  Golden  String 165 

BONER,  JOHN  H. 

Renascence    •••••••••••••••  60 

BRACKETT,  ANNA  C. 

The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx 126 

BRONT£,  EMILY 

No  Coward  Soul 158 

BROWN,  FRANCES 

Losses 71 

BROWNING,  ROBERT 

A  Good  Hope 19 

The  Great  Assurance 49 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  ix 

PAGE 

Epilogue 73 

The  Coming  Man 129 

The  Good  Moments 146 

Prospice 153 

BURROUGHS,  JOHN 

Waiting 199 

CARLYLE,  THOMAS 

Solemn  before  Us 161 

To-Day 196 

CARMAN,  BLISS 

The  Marching  Morrows no 

The  Trail  of  the  Bugles 172 

CASE,  LIZZIE  YORK 

No  Unbelief 109 

CHADWICK,  JOHN  WHITE 

Unrecognized 13 

Why  this  Waste 19 

Another  Year 38 

Auld  Lang  Syne 9f 

Defeat 93 

The  Priceless  Pearl 98 

Sadness  and  Gladness  ....... 133 

The  Two  Waitings 186 

The  Twofold  Awe 142 

CHAMBERS'S  JOURNAL 

Through  Lif 18* 

CHAPMAN,  GEORGE 

On  Life's  Rough  Sea 197 

CHARLES,  MRS. 

Anticipation M* 


X  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

CLARK,  MRS.  D.  H.  PAGE 

A  Recompense 184 

CLARKE,  JAMES  FREEMAN 

The  Answer 88 

Protecting  Shadows 119 

CLOUGH,  ARTHUR  HUGH 

The  New  Sinai 101 

With  whom  is  no  Variableness 155 

Hope  Evermore  and  Believe 162 

Ah,  yet  Consider  it  again 165 

Who  knows 171 

Say  not  the  Struggle  naught  availeth 200 

COLERIDGE,  HARTLEY 

The  Unpardonable  Sin 94 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR 

Three  Friends a 

j^  Evening  Prayer 12 

CONE,  HELEN  GRAY 

Arraignment 45 

The  Glorious  Company 66 

CRANCH,  CHRISTOPHER  P. 

Old  and  Young 42 

DICKINSON,  EMILY 

The  Book  of  Martyrs 202 

DODGE,  MARY  MAPES 

The  Two  Mysteries 57 

DOWDEN,  EDWARD 

Optimism 165 

ELIOT,  GEORGE 

The  Greatest  Gift 15 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  xi 

PAGE 

Our  Finest  Hope 90 

The  Tide  of  Faith 96 

EUOT,  HENRIETTA  R. 

The  Unwelcome  Guest 32 

A  Wish 36 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO 

When  Duty  Calls 2 

Victorious 8 

Days 8 

The  Safest  Way 11 

Heroism 24 

Science .    .  96 

^  Love's  Nobility 144 

The  Apology 170 

FABER,  FREDERICK  W. 

Cor  Cordium 5 

FROTHINGHAM,  N.  L. 

A  Longing 121 

FROUDE,  JAMBS  ANTHONY 

Together 70 

GANNETT,  WILLIAM  C. 

Our  Father 105 

GARRISON,  WILLIAM  LLOYD 

Freedom  of  the  Mind 122 

GILDER,  RICHARD  WATSON 

Through  Love  to  Light i 

The  Modern  Rhymer 16 

On  the  Death  of  a  Great  Man 24 

Non  Sine  Dolore 99 

Hide  not  thy  Heart 124 


XI 1  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

GLADDEN,  G.  WASHINGTON  PAGE 

The  Baby  Over  the  Way 136 

GORDON,  A.  LINDSAY 

Well  Satisfied 112 

Potter's  Clay 168 

GOSSE,  EDMUND 

One  Great  Desire *  .  .  201 

GUINBY,  LOUISE  IMOGEN 

The  Kings 131 

HEDGE,  FREDERIC  HENRY 

The  Morning  Star 40 

HENLEY,  WILLIAM  E. 

What  is  to  Come 62 

Urbs  Fortitudinis 97 

HIGGINSON,  MARY  THACHER 

He  Giveth  Snow 144 

HIGGINSON,  THOMAS  WENTWORTH 

Sub  Pondere  Crescit 47 

An  Egyptian  Banquet 98 

Joy  Cometh  with  the  Morning 139 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL 

The  Chambered  Nautilus 46 

The  Two  Armies 67 

HORNE,  HERBERT  P. 

Young  Windebank 152 

HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  D. 

Change      ...» 47 

Calvary 72 

Conscience 77 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  xiii 

HUGO,  VICTOR  PAGE 

The  Bird  of  Life 3 

HUNT,  LEIGH 

An  Angel  in  the  House 155 

HUTCHESON,  HELEN  THAYER 

Out  of  Childhood 116 

HUXLEY,  MRS.  THOMAS  H. 

.  If  Endless  Sleep 72 

INGBLOW,  JEAN 

Though  all  Great  Deeds 187 

IRONQUILL 

Victor 37 

Superstition 67 

JONSON,  BEN 

Multum  in  Panro 3 

LAMARTINB 

Silent  Prayer 194 

LANDOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE 

The  Fire  of  Life 158 

LANIER,  SIDNEY 

Life  in  Ourselves 156 

The  Stirrup-Cup 161 

Opposition 180 

Down  the  Dark  Future 185 

Life  and  Song 191 

LARCOM,  Lucv 

Shared 103 

LEFROY,  EDWARD  CRACROFT 

Two  Thoughts 163 


xiv  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

LIDDELL,  CATHERINE  C.  PACK 

Jesus  the  Carpenter 176 

LITCHFIELD,  GRACE  DENIO 

The  Cricket 169 

Courage iSi 

LITTLE,  LIZZIE  M. 

Life 143 

LONGFELLOW,  SAMUEL 

Nearing  the  End 65 

Love 193 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL 

A  True  Patriot 4 

God  with  Us 4 

The  Unending  Genesis 9 

Antiphonous  —  Antistrophe 33 

Building  the  Future 61 

In  Hoc  Signo 133 

Dulce  et  Decorum 145 

LYALL,  ALFRED 

Theology  in  Extremis 52 

MACDONALD  GEORGE 

Hymn  for  the  Mother 107 

At  Joseph's  Bench 177 

MACKAY,  CHARLES 

What  might  be  done 174 

MARTINEAU,  HARRIET 

On,  On,  Forever! 67 

MASON,  CAROLINE  A. 

En  Voyage 198 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  xv 

MASSEY,  GERALD  PAGE 

His  Banner  Over  Me j66 

MONKHOUSE,  COSMO 

The  Secret X47 

MYERS,  FREDERIC  W.  H. 

Saved  by  Hope 86 

NASON,  EMMA  HUNTINGTON 

Will  it  be  Thus I38 

NEWMAN,  JOHN  HENRY 

Flowers  without  Fruit 175 

OSGOOD,  MARY 

My  Star 88 

PALGRAVE,  FRANCIS  TURNER 

Pro  Mortuis 30 

PARSONS,  T.  W. 

CivitasDei 7 

PECKHAM,  MARY  CHACE 

Sunset 48 

PLUMMER,  MARY  WRIGHT 

Irrevocable 123 

My  Own 137 

POTTBR,  MRS.  W.  J. 

Deep  unto  Deep 114 

RANDS,  WILLIAM  BRIGHTY 

Strong-Builded  World 6 

Beyond  the  Clouds 62 

The  Child  in  the  Midst 72 


xvi  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

RILEY,  JAMES  WHITCOMB  PAGE 

I  Bereaved 31 

*  Someday 39 

A  Song  of  the  Cruise .  74 

ROBERTS,  CHARLES  G.  D. 

Autochthon 17 

Epitaph  for  a  Sailor  Buried  Ashore 58 

ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  GEORGINA 

Up-Hill 139 

Remember 164 

SCOTT,  FREDERICK  GEORGE 

Ad  Majorem  Dei  Gloriam 82 

SERVIAN  FOLK  SONG 

The  Good  Soldier 26 

SHAKSPERE,  WILLIAM 

Antiphonous  —  Strophe 32 

Natura  Naturans 127 

SILL,  EDWARD  ROWLAND 

Like  in  Difference 9 

After  Many  Days 14 

Opportunity 59 

A  Morning  Thought 91 

Carpe  Diem X4« 

Life 195 

STANLEY,  ARTHUR  PENRHYN 

Spe  Trepido 35 

A  Prayer 178 

SUTTON,  HENRY  SEPTIMUS 

How  Beautiful  to  be  Alive 84 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  xvii 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  C.  PAGE 

Mater  Triumphalis 5 

A  Marching  Song ^ 

SYMONDS,  JOHN  ADDINGTON 

An  Invocation 2; 

When  Half-Gods  Go 27 

GottundWclt 83 

The  Will •    .  179 

Beati  Illi 196 

Farewell 197 

TABB,  JOHN  B. 

Glimpses 90 

At  Anchor 109 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED 

The  Way  to  Glory 3 

Will ii 

The  Making  of  Man 29 

Doubt  and  Prayer 42 

Cosmic  Emotion 128 

Crossing  the  Bar 195 

The  Wanderer 203 

THAXTER,  CELIA 

Sunrise  Never  Fails 63 

Courage 115 

THAYER,  WILLIAM  ROSCOB 

Ever  Womanly 60 

THOREAU,  HENRY  D. 

The  Better  Way I 

^  Love  Inescapable 8 

My  Prayer 160 


xviii  INDEX  OF  A  UTHORS. 

TIMROD,  HENRY  PAGB 

The  Life  of  Lov  ..............      *6 

WASSON,  DAVID  A. 

Ideals  .................      22 

All  's  Well    ............... 

WATSON,  WILLIAM 

The  Things  that  are  more  Excellent  .......      5° 

When  Half-Gods  Go    ............      99 

WEISS,  JOHN 

The  Indwelling  God    ............     I27 


WHITE,  JOSEPH  BLANCO 
The  Blinding  Light 


WHITE,  W.  HALE 

A  Low  Estate     ..............  ?8 

WHITNEY,  A.  D.  T. 

The  Promise  of  Spring    ...........  J4^ 

The  City  in  Spring      ............  l83 

WHITNEY,  ANNE 

Evening    ................  "3° 

Well  Paid  ................  *49 

The  Service  of  Beauty     ...........  J&4 

The  Hidden  Life    .............  l&9 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF 

From  the  Eternal  Shadow    ..........  125 

Abraham  Davenport    ............  I5° 

WHYTEHEAD,  THOMAS 

The  Heavens  Declare  Thy  Glory  ........  85 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XIX 

WILLIAMS,  THEODORE  C.  PAGE 

My  Shell 20 

A  Sabbath  Evening 33 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM 

Greater  than  we  Know 13 

A  Mystery 2I 

That  Blessed  Mood ^7 

Ode  to  Duty 7, 

WRIGHT,  MERLR  ST.  CROIX 

Rare  Moments 04 

Easter  Hymn 100 

VELEY,  MARGARET 

No  Need  to  Watch 44 

VERB,  AUBREY  DB 

The  Soul's  Waste 9a 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

HOPE.  Dvorak  ....  Frontispiece 
PURITANS  GOING  TO  CHURCH.  Boughton  .  4 
EVENING  PRAYER.  Von  Bremen  .  .  .12 

HOPE.     Burne-Jones 19 

DAVID  PLAYING  BEFORE  SAUL.    Schopin     .      49 
CALVARY.    Gerome         ...        .        .        .72 

MOSES.     Michael  Angelo         .        .        .         .     101 

"  MY  CHILD  IS  LYING  ON  MY  KNEES."  BegOS  IO7 
"I  SIT  BENEATH  THE  ELM'S  PROTECTING 

SHADOW."  Bodenhausen  .  .  .119 
THE  RIDDLE  OP  THE  SPHINX  .  .  .  126 
EVENING.  Bernier 130 

"JOY  COMETH   WITH    THE  MORNING."    Marlak      139 

"  HOPE  EVERMORE  "     Bodenhausen  .  .162 

AT  JOSEPH'S  BENCH.     Hoffmann  .  .  .177 

FOUNDLING  GIRLS.     Anderson       .  .  .191 

THE  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS.    Gerome  202 


THROUGH  LOVE  TO  LIGHT. 


THROUGH   LOVE  TO   LIGHT. 

THROUGH  love  to  light !    Oh,  wonderful  the  way 
That  leads  from  darkness  to  the  perfect  day ! 
From  darkness  and  from  sorrow  of  the  night 
To  morning  that  comes  singing  o'er  the  sea. 
Through  love  to  light !    Through  light,  O  God,  to  thee, 
Who  art  the  love  of  love,  the  eternal  light  of 
light. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


THE  BETTER  WAY. 

IS  sweet  to  hear  of  heroes  dead, 

To  know  them  still  alive ; 
But  sweeter  if  we  earn  their  bread, 

And  in  us  they  survive. 
Our  lives  should  feed  the  springs  of  fame 

With  a  perennial  wave, 
As  ocean  feeds  the  babbling  founts 
Which  find  in  it  their  grave. 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 
I 


••*    •'•2'':'';  ''•'VJfRQVbH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


WHEN    DUTY   CALLS. 

IN  an  age  of  fops  and  toys, 
Wanting  wisdom,  void  of  right, 
Who  shall  nerve  heroic  boys 

To  hazard  all  in  Freedom's  fight,  — 
Break  sharply  off  their  jolly  games, 

Forsake  their  comrades  gay, 
And  quit  proud  homes  and  youthful  dames 

For  famine,  toil,  and  fray  ? 
Yet  on  the  nimble  air  benign 

Speed  nimbler  messages, 
That  waft  the  breath  of  grace  divine 

To  hearts  in  sloth  and  ease. 
So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 

So  near  is  God  to  man, 
When  Duty  whispers  low,  Thou  must, 

The  youth  replies,  /  can. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON, 


THREE   FRIENDS. 

HATH  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends, 
The  good  great  man  ?  —  three  treasures,  love 

and  light, 

And  calm  thoughts,  regular  as  an  infant's  breath ; 
And  three  firm  friends,  more    sure    than  day  and 

night,  — 
Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


THE    WAY  TO  GLORY. 


THE   BIRD   OF   LIFE. 

LET  us  be  like  a  bird,  a  moment  lighted 
Upon  a  twig  that  swings ; 
He  feels  it  sway,  but  sings  on  unaffrighted, 
Knowing  he  hath  his  wings. 

VICTOR  HUGO. 

MULTUM    IN   PARVO. 

IT  is  not  growing,  like  a  tree, 
In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere : 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night,  — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

BEN  JONSON, 

THE  WAY  TO  GLORY. 

YEA,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice,  in  our  rough  island-story, 
The  path  of  Duty  was  the  way  to  glory: 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 


THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 

Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes 

He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 

Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 

All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 

Not  once  or  twice,  in  our  fair  island-story, 

The  path  of  Duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 

He  that,  ever  following  her  commands, 

On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 

Through  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has  won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevailed, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 

To  which  our  God  himself  is  moon  and  sun. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

A  TRUE   PATRIOT. 

I  LOVED  my  country  so  as  only  they 
Who  love  a  mother  fit  to  die  for  may ; 
I  loved  her  old  renown,  her  stainless  fame, — 
What  better  proof  than  that  I  loathed  her  shame  ? 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

GOD  WITH   US. 

O  POWER  more  near  my  life  than  life  itself, 
I  fear  not  thy  withdrawal :  more  I  fear 
Seeing  to  know  thee  not,  hoodwinked  with  dreams 
Of  signs  and  wonders,  while,  unnoticed,  thou, 
Walking  thy  garden  still,  commun'st  with  men, 
Missed  in  the  commonplace  of  miracle. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


MATER   TR2UMPHALIS. 


COR   CORDIUM. 

OUR  God  is  never  so  far  off 
As  even  to  be  near. 
He  is  within ;  our  spirit  is 

The  home  he  holds  most  dear. 
To  think  of  him  as  by  our  side 

Is  almost  as  untrue 
As  to  remove  his  throne  beyond 

Those  skies  of  starry  blue. 
So  all  the  while  I  thought  myself 
Homeless,  forlorn,  and  weary, 
Missing  my  joy,  I  walked  the  earth, 
Myself  God's  sanctuary. 

FREDERICK  W.  FABER. 


MATER  TRIUMPHALIS. 

MOTHER  of  man's  time-travelling  generations, 
Breath  of  his  nostrils,  heartblood  of  his  heart, 
God  above  all  gods  worshipped  of  all  nations, 
Light  above  light,  law  beyond  law  thou  art. 

Thine  hands,  without  election  or  exemption, 
Feed  all  men  fainting  from  false  peace  or  strife, 

O  thou,  the  resurrection  and  redemption, 
The  godhead  and  the  manhood  and  the  life. 

ALGERNON  C.  SWINBURNE. 


THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 


STRONG-BUILDED   WORLD. 

STRONG-BUILD  ED  world  of  ancient  days, 
Shown  to  me  for  a  dwelling-place, 
With  heights  and  depths,  and  many  a  treasure,  — 
Come,  I  will  count,  and  weigh,  and  measure, 
And  know  you,  house  in  which  I  live ! 
And  what  your  chambers  have  to  give  ; 
And  far  more  sure  and  far  more  swift 
Shall  be  my  use  of  every  gift; 
From  land  to  land,  from  age  to  age, 
Larger  shall  grow  my  heritage. 

And  you,  great  over-bending  roof ! 
You  rolling  lights  that  shine  aloof 
Forever,  I  will  know  you  too, 
And  why  you  shine,  and  what  you  do ; 
And  when  I  know  your  paths  and  ways, 
That,  too,  shall  help  me  through  the  days, 
Across  the  seas,  and  round  the  land, 
As  if  God  led  me  by  the  hand. 

He  leadeth  me,  he  makes  me  care 
For  every  pain  his  creatures  bear ! 
I  will  arise  and  ask  aloud 
Of  every  pain  that  cries  to  God, 
How  it  has  come.     And  I  shall  know, 
I  shall,  I  shall,  —  God  tells  me  so. 
And  many  a  pain  shall  pass  away 
Like  darkness  in  the  light  of  day. 


CIVITAS  DEI.  7 

Amen !    Thus  spake  the  soul  of  man 

In  every  age  since  time  began ; 

And  louder  yet  and  clearer  grows 

That  voice  divine  since  first  it  rose:  — 

"  Wisdom  and  Love,  not  Wrath  and  Chance, 

Showed  me  this  fair  inheritance ; 

And  till  I  know  it  as  I  ought, 

I  know  not  all  they  meant  and  thought 

When  first  they  showed  my  world  to  me, 

Nor  all  that  I  was  meant  to  be." 

Thou  gracious  voice  !  go  sounding  on 

Till  all  the  inheritance  be  won. 

WILLIAM  BRIGHTY  RANDS. 


THE  CLOUD  OF  WITNESSES. 

LIVING,  our  loved  ones  make  us  what  they  dream ; 
Dead,  if  they  see,  they  know  us  as  we  are. 
Henceforward  we  must  be,  not  merely  seem ; 
Bitterer  woe  than  death  it  were  by  far 
To  fail  their  hopes  whose  love  can  still  redeem ; 
Loss  were  thrice  loss  which  thus  their  faith  could  mar. 

ARLO  BATES. 

CIVITAS  DEI. 

THERE  is  a  city,  builded  by  no  hand, 
And  unapproachable  by  sea  or  shore, 
And  unassailable  by  any  band 
Of  storming  soldiery  for  evermore. 

T.  W.  PARSONS. 


THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 


VICTORIOUS. 

STAINLESS  soldier  on  the  walls, 
Knowing  this  —  and  knows  no  more: 
Whoever  fights,  whoever  falls, 
Justice  conquers  evermore ; 
And  he  who  battles  on  her  side, 

God,  though  he  were  ten  times  slain, 
Crowns  him  victor  glorified,  — 
Victor  over  death  and  pain 
Forever. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


LOVE   INESCAPABLE. 


'S  nothing  in  the  world,  I  know, 
•*•      That  can  escape  from  love; 
For  every  depth  it  goes  below, 

And  every  height  above. 
It  waits,  as  waits  the  sky 
Until  the  clouds  go  by, 
Secure  when  they  are  gone 
And  when  they  stay. 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 

DAYS. 

AUGHTERS  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 
Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 
And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 
Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 


LIKE  IN  DIFFERENCE.  9 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will,  — 

Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  all. 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 

Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 

Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 

Turned  and  departed  silent.     I,  too  late, 

Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


THE  UNENDING  GENESIS. 

I  THINK  man's  soul  dwells  nearer  to  the  east, 
Nearer  to  morning's  fountains  than  the  sun,  — 
Herself  the  source  whence  all  tradition  sprang, 
Herself  at  once  both  labyrinth  and  clew. 
The  miracle  fades  out  of  history, 
But  faith  and  wonder  and  the  primal  earth 
Are  bora  into  the  world  with  every  child. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


LIKE   IN   DIFFERENCE. 

DOUBTING  Thomas  and  loving  John, 
With  the  others  walking  on. 

"  Tell  me  now,  John,  dare  you  be 
One  of  the  small  minority; 
To  be  lonely  in  your  thought, 
Never  to  be  sought  or  bought ; 


10  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

To  be  dropped  and  shunned,  and  go 
Through  the  world  esteemed  its  foe ; 
To  bear  off  your  titles  well, 
Heretic  and  infidel ; 
To  be  singled  out  and  hissed, 
Pointed  at  as  one  unblessed  ; 
Warred  against  in  whispers  faint, 
Lest  the  children  catch  a  taint  ? 
If  you  dare,  come  now  with  me, 
Fearless,  confident,  and  free." 


"  Thomas,  do  you  dare  to  be 

One  of  the  great  majority ; 

To  be  only  as  the  rest, 

With  God's  common  blessings  blest ; 

To  accept  in  humble  part 

Truth  that  shines  on  every  heart ; 

To  be  never  set  on  high 

Where  the  envious  curses  fly ; 

Never  name  and  fame  to  find, 

Far  outstripped  in  soul  or  mind ; 

To  be  hid,  except  to  God, 

As  one  grass-blade  in  the  sod, 

Under  foot  with  millions  trod  ? 

If  you  dare,  come,  with  us  be 

Lost  in  love's  great  unity." 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 


THE  SAFEST  WAY.  u 

WILL. 

OH,  well  for  him  whose  will  is  strong ! 
He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long ; 
He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer  wrong. 
For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world's  random  mock, 
Nor  all  Calamity's  hugest  waves  confound ; 
Who  seems  a  promontory  of  rock, 
That,  compassed  round  with  turbulent  sound, 
In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging  shock, 
Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-crowned. 

But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with  time, 

Corrupts  the  strength  of  heaven-descended  will, 

And  ever  weaker  grows  through  acted  crime, 

Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault, 

Recurring  and  suggesting  still ! 

He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps  halt, 

Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand, 

And  o'er  a  weary,  sultry  land, 

Far,  beneath  a  blazing  vault, 

Sown  in  a  wrinkle  of  the  monstrous  hill, 

The  city  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

THE   SAFEST  WAY. 

HP  HOUGH  love  repine  and  reason  chafe, 
•*•      There  came  a  voice  without  reply, 
'T  is  man's  perdition  to  be  safe 
When  for  the  truth  he  ought  to  die. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


12  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


EVENING   PRAYER. 

ERE  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay, 
It  hath  not  been  my  use  to  pray 
With  folded  hands  or  bended  knees ; 
But  silently,  by  slow  degrees, 
My  spirit  I  to  love  compose, 
In  humble  trust  mine  eyelids  close 
With  reverential  resignation : 
No  wish  conceived,  no  thought  expressed, 
Only  a  sense  of  supplication,  — 
A  sense  o'er  all  my  soul  imprest 
That  I  am  weak  but  not  unblest, 
Since  in  me,  round  me,  everywhere, 
Eternal  Strength  and  Wisdom  are. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


IN  A  RING. 

GOD  wills  that  in  a  ring 
His  blessings  should  be  sent 
From  living  thing  to  thing, 

And  nowhere  stayed  or  spent; 
And  every  soul  that  takes 
And  gives  not  on  again 
Is  so  a  link  that  breaks 
In  heaven's  love-made  chain. 

WILLIAM  BARNES. 


EVENING    PRAYER. 
From  the  painting  by  Meyer  von  Bremen. 


GREATER   THAN  WE  KNOW.  13 


UNRECOGNIZED. 

WHEN  we  have  gone  within  the  veil  that  hides 
From  mortal  ken  the  lost  of  other  days, 
Amid  the  pure  transparence  of  those  rays 
Wherein,  unseen,  the  Light  of  Life  abides, 
Shall  we  indeed  from  out  the  luminous  tides 

Of  spirits  surging  through  those  mystic  ways 
Full  surely  know  —  oh,  joy  beyond  all  praise  !  — 
Each  waiting  friend?    So  heart  to  heart  confides 
Its  secret  pain.    But  one  of  clearest  sight, 

So  questioned,  answered :  While  we  still  are  here 

Earth-pent,  how  often  do  we  recognize, 
For  what  they  are,  the  spirits  pure  and  bright 

Close  at  our  sides?    How  not  for  heaven  fear 
When  mortal  vapors  wrap  in  such  disguise  ? 

JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK. 


GREATER   THAN   WE   KNOW. 

WE  men  who  in  the  morn  of  youth  defied 
The  elements  must  vanish ;  be  it  so ! 
Enough  if  something  from  our  hands  have  power 
To  live,  to  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour; 
And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we  go, 
Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith's  transcendent 

dower, 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


14  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


AFTER  MANY  DAYS. 

NOT  out  of  any  cloud  or  sky 
Will  thy  good  come  to  prayer  or  cry. 
Let  the  great  forces,  wise  of  old, 
Have  their  whole  way  with  thee, 
Crumble  thy  heart  from  its  hold, 
Drown  thy  life  in  the  sea. 
And  aeons  hence,  some  day, 
The  love  thou  gavest  a  child, 
The  dream  in  a  midnight  wild, 
The  word  thou  would'st  not  say,  — 
Or  in  a  whisper  no  one  dared  to  hear,  — 
Shall  gladden  earth  and  bring  the  golden  year. 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 


w 


A  MARCHING  SONG. 

'ITH  us  the  fields  and  rivers, 

The  grass  that  summer  thrills, 
The  haze  where  morning  quivers, 

The  peace  at  heart  of  hills, 
The  sense  that  kindles  nature,  and  the  soul  that  fills. 

With  us  all  natural  sights, 

All  notes  of  natural  scale ; 
With  us  the  starry  lights  ; 

With  us  the  nightingale ; 
With  us  the  heart  and  secret  of  the  worldly  tale,  — 


THE  GREATEST  GIFT.  15 

The  strife  of  things  and  beauty, 

The  fire  and  light  adored, 
Truth  and  life-lightening  duty, 

Love  without  crown  or  sword, 

That  by  his  might  and  godhead  makes  man  god  and 
lord. 

These  have  we,  these  are  ours, 

That  no  priests  give  nor  kings ; 
The  honey  of  all  these  flowers, 

The  heart  of  all  these  springs; 

Ours,  for  where  freedom  lives  not,  there  live  no  good 
things. 

Rise,  ere  the  dawn  be  risen ; 

Come,  and  be  all  souls  fed ; 
From  field  and  street  and  prison 
Come,  for  the  feast  is  spread ; 

Live,  for  the  truth  is  living ;  wake,  for  the  night  is  dead. 
ALGERNON  C.  SWINBURNE. 


THE   GREATEST  GIFT. 

NO  good  is  certain  but  the  steadfast  mind, 
The  undivided  will  to  seek  the  good : 
'T  is  that  compels  the  elements,  and  wrings 
A  human  music  from  the  indifferent  air. 
The  greatest  gift  a  hero  leaves  his  race 

Is  to  have  been  a  hero. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 


1 6  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT 


THE   MODERN   RHYMER. 

NOW,  you  who  rhyme,  and  I  who  rhyme, 
Have  we  not  sworn  it,  many  a  time, 
That  we  no  more  our  verse  would  scrawl, 
For  Shakespeare  he  had  sung  it  all ; 
And  yet,  whatever  others  see, 
The  earth  is  fresh  to  you  and  me; 
And  birds  that  sing,  and  winds  that  blow, 
And  blooms  that  make  the  country  glow, 
And  lusty  swains,  and  maidens  bright, 
And  clouds  by  day,  and  stars  by  night, 
And  all  the  pictures  in  the  skies 
That  moved  before  Will  Shakespeare's  eyes  ; 
Love,  hate,  and  scorn  ;  frost,  fire,  and  flower ; 
On  us  as  well  as  him  have  power. 
Go  to !  our  spirits  shall  not  be  laid, 
Silenced  and  smothered  by  a  shade. 
Avon  is  not  the  only  stream 
Can  make  a  poet  sing  and  dream ; 
Nor  are  those  castles,  queens,  and  kings 
The  height  of  sublunary  things. 

Beneath  the  false  moon's  pallid  glare, 
By  the  cool  fountain  in  the  square 
(This  gray-green,  dusty  square  they  set 
Where  two  gigantic  highways  met) 
We  hear  a  music  rare  and  new, 
Sweet  Shakespeare,  was  not  known  to  you  I 
You  saw  the  new  world's  sun  arise ; 
High  up  it  shines  in  our  own  skies. 


A  UTO  CHTHON.  1 7 

You  saw  the  ocean  from  the  shore,— 
Through  mid-seas  now  our  ship  doth  roar ; 
A  wild,  new,  teeming  world  of  men 
That  wakens  in  the  poet's  brain 
Thoughts  that  were  never  thought  before 
Of  hope,  and  longing,  and  despair, 
Wherein  man's  never-resting  race 
Westward,  still  westward,  on  doth  fare, 
Doth  still  subdue  and  still  aspire, 
Or,  turning  on  itself,  doth  face 
Its  own  indomitable  fire  :  — 
O  million-centuried  thoughts  that  make 
The  Past  seem  but  a  shallop's  wake! 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


I 


AUTOCHTHON. 

AM  the  spirit  astir 

To  swell  the  grain, 
When  fruitful  suns  confer 

With  laboring  rain ; 
I  am  the  life  that  thrills 
In  branch  and  bloom  ; 
I  am  the  patience  of  abiding  hills, 

The  promise  masked  in  doom. 

When  the  sombre  lands  are  wrung, 

And  storms  are  out, 
And  giant  woods  give  tongue, 

I  am  the  shout ; 

2 


1 8  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

And  when  the  earth  would  sleep, 

Wrapped  in  her  snows, 
I  am  the  infinite  gleam  of  eyes  that  keep 
The  post  of  her  repose. 

I  am  the  hush  of  calm ; 

I  am  the  speed, 
The  flood-tide's  triumphing  psalm, 

The  marsh-pool's  heed ; 
I  work  in  the  rocking  roar 

Where  cataracts  fall ; 
I  flash  in  the  prismy  fire  that  dances  o'er 

The  dew's  ephemeral  ball. 

I  am  the  voice  of  wind 

And  wave  and  tree, 
Of  stern  desires  and  blind, 

Of  strength  to  be ; 
I  am  the  cry  by  night 

At  point  of  dawn, 
The  summoning  bugle  from  the  unseen  height, 

In  cloud  and  doubt  withdrawn. 

I  am  the  strife  that  shapes 

The  stature  of  man, 
The  pang  no  hero  escapes, 

The  blessing,  the  ban ; 
I  am  the  hammer  that  moulds 

The  iron  of  our  race, 

The  omen  of  God  in  our  blood  that  a  people  behold, 
The  foreknowledge  veiled  in  our  face. 

CHARLES  G   D.  ROBERTS. 


HOPE. 


From  the  painting  by  Buime-Jones\      \  \,  >\   •  •  *,',  »' 
,»,'»»»>»» 


A   GOOD  HOPE.  19 


"WHY   THIS   WASTE?" 

*H  AT  eyes  which  pierced  our  inmost  being  through ; 
-      That  lips  which  pressed  into  a  single  kiss 

It  seemed  a  whole  eternity  of  bliss ; 
That  cheeks  which  mantled  with  love's  rosy  hue ; 
That  feet  which  wanted  nothing  else  to  do 

But  run  upon  love's  errands,  this  and  this; 

That  hands  so  fair  they  had  not  seemed  amiss 
Reached  down  by  angels  through  the  deeps  of  blue,  — 

That  all  of  these  so  deep  in  earth  should  lie 

While  season  after  season  passeth  by ; 
That  things  which  are  so  sacred  and  so  sweet 
The  hungry  roots  of  tree  and  plant  should  eat! 

Oh  for  one  hour  to  see  as  thou  dost  see, 

My  God,  how  great  the  recompense  must  be ! 

JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK. 


A  GOOD  HOPE. 

MY  own  hope  is  a  sun  will  pierce 
The  thickest  cloud  earth  ever  stretched; 
That  after  last  returns  the  first, 

Though  a  wide  compass  round  be  fetched  ; 
That  what  began  best  can't  end  worst, 
Nor  what  God  blest  once  prove  accurst. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


20  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


SLEEP. 

WHEN  to  soft  Sleep  we  give  ourselves  away, 
And  in  a  dream  as  in  a  fairy  bark 
Drift  on  and  on  through  the  enchanted  dark 
To  purple  daybreak,  little  thought  we  pay 
To  that  sweet-bitter  world  we  know  by  day. 
We  are  clean  quit  of  it,  as  is  a  lark 
So  high  in  heaven  no  human  eye  can  mark 
The  thin,  swift  pinion  cleaving  through  the  gray. 
Till  we  awake  ill  fate  can  do  no  ill ; 
The  resting  heart  shall  not  take  up  again 
The  heavy  load  that  yet  must  make  it  bleed ; 
For  this  brief  space  the  loud  world's  voice  is  still, 
No  faintest  echo  of  it  brings  us  pain. 
How  will  it  be  when  we  shall  sleep  indeed  ? 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


MY  SHELL. 

A  SHELL  upon  the  sounding  sands 
Flashed  in  the  sunshine,  where  it  lay : 
Its  green  disguise  I  tore;   my  hands 
Bore  the  rich  treasure-trove  away. 

Within,  the  chamber  of  the  pearl 

Blushed  like  the  rose,  like  opal  glowed ; 

And  o'er  its  domes  a  cloudy  swirl 

Of  mimic  waves  and  rainbows  flowed. 


A   MYSTERY.  21 

"  Strangely,"  I  said,  "  the  artist-worm 
Has  made  his  palace-lair  so  bright! 

This  jeweller,  this  draughtsman  firm, 
Was  born  and  died  in  eyeless  night. 

"  Deep  down  in  many-monstered  caves 

His  miracle  of  beauty  throve ; 
Far  from  all  light,  against  strong  waves, 

A  Castle  Beautiful  he  wove. 

"  Take  courage,  Soul !     Thy  labor  blind 

The  lifting  tides  may  onward  bear 
To  some  glad  shore,  where  thou  shalt  find 

Light,  and  a  Friend  to  say,  *  How  fair ! ' ' 

THEODORE  C.  WILLIAMS. 


A   MYSTERY. 

MY  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 
My  heart  is  idly  stirred; 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 
Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay  ; 

And  yet  the  wiser  mind 
Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away 

Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 


22  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees, 

The  lark  above  the  hill, 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 

Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 

A  foolish  strife  ;  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 

Is  beautiful  and  free. 

But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws ; 

And  often,  glad  no  more, 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy  because 

We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


IDEALS. 

A  NGELS  of  Growth,  of  old  in  that  surprise 
•**•     Of  your  first  vision,  wild  and  sweet, 

I  poured  in  passionate  sighs 

My  wish  unwise 
That  ye  descend  my  heart  to  meet,  — 

My  heart  so  slow  to  rise ! 

Now  thus  I  pray :  Angelic  be  to  hold 
In  heaven  your  shining  poise  afar, 

And  to  my  wishes  bold, 

Reply  with  cold, 
Sweet  invitation,  like  a  star 

Fixed  in  the  heavens  old. 


IDEALS.  23 

Did  ye  descend,  what  were  ye  more  than  I 
Is  't  not  by  this  ye  are  divine, 

That,  native  to  the  sky, 

Ye  cannot  hie 
Downward,  and  give  low  hearts  the  wine 

That  should  reward  the  high  ? 

Weak,  yet  in  weakness  I  no  more  complain 
Of  your  abiding  in  your  places ; 

Oh,  still,  howe'er  my  pain 

Wild  prayers  may  rain, 
Keep  pure  on  high  the  perfect  graces, 

That  stooping  could  but  stain. 

Not  to  content  our  lowness,  but  to  lure 
And  lift  us  to  your  angelhood, 

Do  your  surprises  pure 

Dawn  far  and  sure 
Above  the  tumult  of  young  blood, 

And  starlike  there  endure. 

Wait  there,  wait  and  invite  me  while  I  climb. 
For  see,  I  come !  —  but  slow,  but  slow ! 

Yet  ever  as  your  chime, 

Soft  and  sublime, 
Lifts  at  my  feet,  they  move,  they  go 

Up  the  great  stair  of  time. 

DAVID  A.  WASSON. 


24  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


HEROISM. 

RUBY  wine  is  drunk  by  knaves, 
Sugar  spends  to  fatten  slaves, 
Rose  and  vine-leaf  deck  buffoons  ; 
Thunder-clouds  are  Jove's  festoons, 
Drooping  oft  in  wreaths  of  dread 
Lightning-knotted  round  his  head. 
The  hero  is  not  fed  on  sweets : 
Daily  his  own  heart  he  eats  ; 
Chambers  of  the  great  are  jails, 
And  head-winds  right  for  royal  sails. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


ON  THE   DEATH   OF  A  GREAT  MAN. 

WHEN  from  this  mortal  scene 
A  great  soul  passes  to  the  vast  unknown, 
Let  not  in  hopeless  grief  the  spirit  groan. 
Death  comes  to  all,  the  mighty  and  the  mean. 
If  by  that  death  the  whole  world  surfer  loss, 
This  be  the  proof  (and  lighter  thus  our  cross), 
That  he  for  whom  the  world  doth  sorely  grieve 
Greatly  hath  blessed  mankind  in  that  he  once  did  live. 
Then,  at  the  bating  breath, 
Let  men  praise  Life,  nor  idly  blame  dark  Death. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


AN  INVOCA  TION.  2  5 


AN   INVOCATION. 

HIM  neither  eye  has  seen,  nor  ear  hath  heard; 
Nor  reason,  seated  in  the  souls  of  men, 
Though  pondering  oft  on  the  mysterious  word, 
Hath  e'er  revealed  his  Being  to  mortal  ken. 

Only  we  feel  Him :  and  in  aching  dreams, 
Swift  intuitions,  pangs  of  keen  delight, 
The  sudden  vision  of  His  glory  seems 
To  sear  our  souls,  dividing  the  dull  night ; 

And  we  yearn  toward  Him.    Beauty,  Goodness,  Truth ; 
These  three  are  one,  —  one  life,  one  thought,  one  being, 
One  source  of  still  rejuvenescent  youth, 
One  light  for  endless  and  unclouded  seeing. 

O  God,  unknown,  invisible,  secure, 
Whose  being  by  dim  resemblances  we  guess, 
Who  in  man's  fear  and  love  abidest  sure, 
Whose  power  we  feel  in  darkness  and  confess ! 

Lead  Thou  me,  God,  Law,  Reason,  Duty,  Life ! 
All  names  for  Thee  alike  are  vain  and  hollow  — 
Lead  me,  for  I  will  follow  without  strife ; 
Or,  if  I  strive,  still  must  I  blindly  follow. 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


26  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


THE   LIFE   OF   LOVE. 

MOST  men  know  love  but  as  a  part  of  life ; 
They  hide  it  in  some  corner  of  the  breast 

Even  from  themselves ;  and  only  when  they  rest 
In  the  brief  pauses  of  that  daily  strife 
Wherewith  the  world  might  else  be  not  so  rife, 

They  draw  it  forth  (as  one  draws  forth  a  toy 

To  soothe  some  ardent,  kiss-exacting  boy) 
And  hold  it  up  to  sister,  child,  or  wife. 

Ah,  me !  why  may  not  life  and  love  be  one  ? 
Why  walk  we  thus  alone,  when  by  our  side 
Love,  like  a  visible  god,  might  be  our  guide  ? 
How  would  the  marts  grow  noble,  and  the  street, 
Worn  like  a  dungeon  floor  by  weary  feet, 

Seem  then  a  golden  courtway  of  the  sun ! 

HENRY  TIMROD 


THE  GOOD   SOLDIER. 

AND  when  the  wind  in  the  tree-tops  roared, 
The  soldier  asked  from  the  deep,  dark  grave : 
"  Did  the  banner  flutter  then  ?  " 
"  Not  so,  my  hero,"  the  wind  replied  ; 
"  The  fight  is  done,  but,  the  banner  won, 
Thy  comrades  of  old  have  borne  it  hence, 

Have  borne  it  in  triumph  hence." 
Then  the  soldier  spake  from  the  deep,  dark  grave : 
"  I  am  content" 


WHEN  HALF-GODS  GO.  2 

Then  he  heareth  the  lovers  laughing  pass, 

And  the  soldier  asks  once  more : 
"Are  these  not  the  voices  of  them  that  love, 

That  love  —  and  remember  me?  " 
"  Not  so,  my  hero,"  the  lovers  say, 
"  We  are  those  that  remember  not ; 
For  the  spring  has  come,  and  the  earth  has  smiled, 

And  the  dead  must  be  forgot." 
Then  the  soldier  spake  from  the  deep,  dark  grave: 
"  I  am  content." 

SERVIAN  FOLK  SONG. 


WHEN   HALF-GODS   GO. 

GODS  fade;  but  God  abides,  and  in  man's  heart 
Speaks  with  the  unconquerable  cry 
Of  energies  and  hopes  that  cannot  die. 
We  feel  this  sentient  self  the  counterpart 
Of  some  self  vaster  than  the  star-girt  sky. 
Yea,  though  our  utterance  falter ;  though  no  art 
By  more  than  sign  or  signal  may  impart 
This  faith  of  faiths  that  lifts  our  courage  high ; 
Yet  there  are  human  duties,  human  needs, 

Love,  charity,  self-sacrifice,  war 
Waged  against  tyranny,  fraud,  suffering,  crime,  — 
•  These,  ever  strengthening  with  the  strength  of  time, 
Exalt  man  higher  than  fabled  angels  are. 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


28  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


THE   UNIVERSAL  GOD. 

FORASMUCH  as  all  men  worship,  bow  the  head 
or  bend  the  knee 
Toward  a  Fate,  a  Power,  a  Maker,  whom  they,  feel 

yet  cannot  see, 

Source  of  life  and  life's  Destroyer,  Mystery  in  Mys- 
tery; 


Forasmuch  as  all  the  winds  and  all  the  seas  in  wild 

acclaim, 
All  the  worlds  from  outer  darkness  eddying  into  light 

and  flame, 
Roar  with  rumor  of  his  glory,  clang  the  syllables  of 

his  name ; 

Forasmuch   as  heart  and  fancy  throb  with  love   or 

cower  in  fear, 
Stirred  with  tremor  of  his  motions,  by  his  shadowing 

shield  or  spear, 
And  rebelling  or  denying  every  leaf  of  life  is  sear; 

Forasmuch  as  they  who  love,  and  lean  in  love  upon 

his  breast, 
Reap  the  richer  bliss  of  being,  drink  the  dews  of  a 

deeper  rest, 
Rise  renewed  in  soul  and  sinew,  greeting  life  with  a 

keener  zest,  — 


THE  MAKING   OF  MAN.  2$ 

I  will  seek  him  'mid  the  darkness,  search  his  prints 

in  the  shifting  sands, 
Kneel  beside  his  feet  invisible,  crave  the  touch  of  his 

viewless  hands, 
Trust  his  love,  proclaim  his  splendor  trumpet-tongued 

in  the  listless  lands. 

GEORGE  F.  S.  ARMSTRONG. 


THE    MAKING   OF   MAN. 

WHERE  is  one  that,  born  of  woman,  altogether 
can  escape 
From  the  lower  world  within  him,  moods  of  tiger,  or 

of  ape? 
Man  as  yet  is  being  made,  and  ere  the  crowning  Age 

of  ages, 

Shall  not  aeon  after  aeon  pass  and  touch   him  into 
shape  ? 

All  about  him  shadow  still,  but,  while  the  races  flower 

and  fade, 
Prophet-eyes  may  catch  a  glory  slowly  gaining  on  the 

shade, 
Till  the  peoples  all  are  one,  and  all  their  voices  blend 

in  choric 
Hallelujah  to  the  Maker,  "It  is  finished.      Man  is 

made." 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


PRO    MORTUIS. 

WHAT  should  a  man  desire  to  leave  ? 
A  flawless  work ;  a  noble  life  ; 
Some  music  harmonized  from  strife, 
Some  finished  thing,  ere  the  slack  hands  at  eve 
Drop,  should  be  his  to  leave. 

One  gem  of  song,  defying  age ; 

A  hard-won  fight;  a  well-worked  farm; 
A  law,  no  guile  can  twist  to  harm ; 
Some  tale  as  our  lost  Thackeray's,  bright,  or  sage 
As  the  just  Hallam's  page. 

Or,  in  life's  homeliest,  meanest  spot, 
With  temperate  step  from  year  to  year 
To  move  within  his  little  sphere, 
Leaving  a  pure  name  to  be  known,  or  not,  — 
This  is  a  true  man's  lot. 

But  the  imperfect  thing,  or  thought,  — 
The  crudities  and  yeast  of  youth, 
The  dubious  doubt,  the  twilight  truth, 
The  work  that  for  the  passing  day  was  wrought, 
The  schemes  that  came  to  naught, 

The  sketch  half-way  'twixt  verse  and  prose 
That  mocks  the  finished  picture  true, 
The  quarry  whence  the  statue  grew, 
The  scaffolding  'neath  which  the  palace  rose, 
The  vague  abortive  throes 


BEREAVED.  31 

And  fever-fits  of  joy  or  gloom,  — 
In  kind  oblivion  let  them  be  ! 
Nor  has  the  dead  worse  foe  than  he    ' 
Who  rakes  these  sweepings  of  the  artist's  room, 
And  piles  them  on  his  tomb. 

Ah,  't  is  but  little  that  the  best, 
Frail  children  of  a  fleeting  hour, 
Can  leave  of  perfect  fruit  or  flower! 
Ah,  let  all  else  be  graciously  supprest 
When  man  lies  down  to  rest ! 

FRANCIS  TURNER  PALGRAVE. 


BEREAVED. 

LET  me  come  in  where  you  sit  weeping,  —  aye, 
Let  me,  who  have  not  any  child  to  die, 
Weep  with  you  for  the  little  one  whose  love 
I  have  known  nothing  of. 

The  little  arms  that  slowly,  slowly  loosed 
Their  pressure  round  your  neck ;  the  hands  you  used 
To  kiss,  —  such  arms  —  such  hands  I  never  knew. 
May  I  not  weep  with  you  ? 

Fain  would  I  be  of  service,  —  say  something, 
Between  the  tears,  that  would  be  comforting,  — 
But,  ah  !  so  sadder  than  yourselves  am  I, 
Who  have  no  child  to  die  ! 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


32  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


THE   UNWELCOME   GUEST. 

WHEN  Grief  shall  come  to  thee, 
Think  not  to  flee, 
For  Grief,  with  steady  pace, 
Will  win  the  race ; 
Nor  crowd  her  forth  with  Mirth, 
For  at  thy  hearth, 
When  Mirth  is  tired  and  gone, 
Will  Grief  sit  on; 
But  make  of  her  thy  friend, 
And  in  the  end 
Her  counsels  will  grow  sweet, 
And,  with  swift  feet, 
Three  lovelier  than  she 
Will  come  to  thee  — 
Calm  Patience,  Courage  strong, 
And  Hope  —  ere  long. 

HENRIETTA  R.  ELIOT. 


ANTIPHONOUS. 

STROPHE. 

AYE,  but  to  die  and  go  we  know  not  where ; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction  and  to  rot ; 
This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod ;  and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  rock-ribbed  ice; 


A   SABBATH  EVENING.  33 

To  be  imprisoned  in  the  viewless  winds, 
And  blown  with  restless  violence  round  about 
The  pendent  world;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 
Of  those  that  lawless  and  uncertain  thoughts 
Imagine  howling !    'T  is  too  horrible ! 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Could  we  be  conscious  but  as  dreamers  be, 
'T  were  sweet  to  leave  this  shifting  life  of  tents 
Sunk  in  the  changeless  calm  of  Deity ; 
Nay,  to  be  mingled  with  the  elements, 
The  fellow-servant  of  creative  powers, 
Partaker  in  the  solemn  year's  events, 
To  share  the  work  of  busy-fingered  hours, 
To  be  night's  silent  almoner  of  dew, 
To  rise  again  in  plants  and  breathe  and  grow, 
To  stream  as  tides  the  ocean  caverns  through, 
Or  with  the  rapture  of  great  winds  to  blow 
About  earth's  shaken  coignes,  were  not  a  fate 
To  leave  us  all  disconsolate. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


A   SABBATH   EVENING. 

I  THANK  thee,  Lord,  that  just  to-day 
I  have  not  seemed  to  go  astray, 
And  that  to-night  the  setting  sun 
Smiles  only  on  my  duty  done. 
3 


34  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Father,  not  thus  thy  name  I  bless 
From  proud  or  blind  self-righteousness, 
Nor  that  I  thus  would  hope  to  win 
Remission  of  some  wilful  sin. 


But  if  to-night  I  lift  my  eyes 
Unto  the  all-beholding  skies, 
And  seem  to  feel  within  me  shine 
Some  kinship  with  their  calm  divine,  — 

The  silent  blessing  bids  me  pray, 
By  this  one  glad  and  blameless  day 
To  learn  what  all  my  days  might  be, 
If  each  were  holy  unto  thee. 

THEODORE  C.  WILLIAMS. 


THE  RISING  TIDE. 

AN  idle  man  I  stroll  at  eve 
Where  move  the  waters  to  and  fro ; 
Full  soon  their  added  gains  will  leave 
Small  space  for  me  to  come  and  go. 

Already  in  the  clogging  sand 

I  walk  with  dull,  retarded  feet ; 
Yet  still  is  sweet  the  lessening  strand, 

And  still  the  dying  light  is  sweet. 

ANONYMOUS. 


SPE   TREPIDO.  35 


ENAMOURED   ARCHITECT    OF    AIRY 
RHYME. 

ENAMOURED  architect  of  airy  rhyme, 
Build  as  thou  wilt;   heed  not  what  each  man 

says. 

Good  souls,  but  innocent  of  dreamer's  ways, 
Will  come,  and  marvel  why  thou  wastest  time ; 
Others,  beholding  how  thy  turrets  climb 
'Twixt  theirs  and  heaven,  will  hate  thee  all  their  days ; 
But  most  beware  of  those  who  come  to  praise. 
O  wondersmith,  O  worker  in  sublime 
And  heaven-sent  dreams,  let  art  be  all  in  all ; 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  unspoiled  by  praise  or  blame, 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  and  as  thy  light  is  given : 
Then,  if  at  last  the  airy  structure  fall,  — 
Dissolve,  and  vanish,  —  take  thyself  no  shame. 
They  fail,  and  they  alone,  who  have  not  striven. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


SPE  TREPIDO. 

T  TREMBLE,  not  with  terror,  but  with  hope, 

•*•     As  the  great  day  reveals  its  coming  scope : 

Never  in  earlier  days,  our  hearts  to  cheer, 

Have  such  bright  gifts  of  heaven  been  brought  so  near ; 

Nor  ever  has  been  kept  the  aspiring  soul 

By  space  so  narrow  from  so  grand  a  goal. 

ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 


36  THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 

A  WISH. 

WHEN  thou,  O  Death  !  shalt  wait 
Without  my  gate, 
Call  not  the  porter  out 
With  knock  and  shout ; 
But  still  unnoticed  bide 
The  gate  beside, 
Till  Sleep,  my  oft-time  guest, 
Doth  come  in  quest 
Of  me.     Quick  after  her, 
Past  bolt  and  bar, 
Enter  all  silently. 
Thenceforth  for  me 
The  gate  thou  mayest  keep, 
That  calm-browed  Sleep, 
So  often  missed  before, 
Pass  forth  no  more. 

HENRIETTA  R.  ELIOT. 

UNDER  GRAY  CLOUDS. 

UNDER  gray  clouds  some  bird  will  dare  to  sing, 
No  wild,  exulting  chant,  but  soft  and  low ; 
Under  gray  clouds  the  young  leaves  seek  the  spring, 

And  lurking  violets  blow  ; 
And  waves  make  idle  music  on  the  strand, 

And  inland  streams  have  happy  words  to  say, 
And  children's  voices  sound  across  the  land, 
Although  the  clouds  are  gray. 

ANONYMOUS. 


VICTOR. 


37 


THAT   BLESSED   MOOD. 

THAT  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 
Is  lightened,  —  that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood, 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul, 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

VICTOR. 

HE  was  a  hero,  fighting  all  alone, 
A  lonesome  warrior,  —  never  one  more  brave,  — 
Discreet,  considerate,  and  grave. 
He  fought  some  noble  battles ;  but  he  gave 
No  voice  to  fame,  and  passed  away  unknown. 

So  grandly  to  occasions  did  he  rise, 

So  splendid  were  the  victories  he  planned, 
That  all  the  world  had  asked  him  to  command 
Could  it  his  native  valor  understand :  — 

He  fought  himself,  and,  winning,  gained  the  prize. 

IRONQUILL. 


38  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


ANOTHER   YEAR. 

THAT  this  shall  be  a  better  year 
Than  any  passed  away, 
I  dare  not  at  its  open  door 
To  wish  or  hope  or  pray. 

Not  that  the  years  already  gone 

Were  wearisome  and  lone ; 
That  so  with  hope  too  long  deferred 

My  heart  has  timid  grown. 

Nay,  rather  that  they  all  have  been 

So  sweet  to  me  and  good, 
That  if  for  better  I  should  ask 

'T  would  seem  ingratitude. 

And  so  with  things  far  off  and  strange 

I  do  not  care  to  cope, 
But  look  in  Memory's  face  and  learn 

What  largess  I  may  hope : 

Another  year  of  setting  suns, 
Of  stars  by  night  revealed, 

Of  springing  grass,  of  tender  buds 
By  winter's  snow  concealed. 

Another  year  of  summer's  glow, 
Of  autumn's  gold  and  brown, 

Of  waving  fields,  and  ruddy  fruit 
The  branches  weighing  down. 


SOMEDAY.  39 

Another  year  of  happy  work, 

Which  better  is  than  play ; 
Of  simple  cares,  and  love  that  grows 

More  sweet  from  day  to  day. 

Another  year  of  baby  mirth, 

And  childhood's  blessed  ways, 
Of  thinker's  thought,  and  prophet's  dream, 

And  poet's  tender  lays. 

Another  year  at  Beauty's  feast, 

At  every  moment  spread, 
Of  silent  hours  when  grow  distinct 

The  voices  of  the  dead. 

Another  year  to  follow  hard 

Where  better  souls  have  trod ; 
Another  year  of  life's  delight, 

Another  year  of  God. 

JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK. 


SOMEDAY. 

SOMEDAY :  —  So  many  tearful  eyes 
Are  watching  for  thy  dawning  light; 
So  many  faces  toward  the  skies 
Are  weary  of  the  night ! 

So  many  failing  prayers  that  reel 
And  stagger  upward  through  the  storm, 

And  yearning  hands  that  reach  and  feel 
No  pressure  true  and  warm. 


40  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

So  many  hearts  whose  crimson  wine 

Is  wasted  to  a  purple  stain, 
And  blurred  and  streaked  with  drops  of  brine 

Upon  the  lips  of  Pain. 

Oh,  come  to  them,  —  these  weary  ones! 

Or,  if  thou  still  must  bide  a  while, 
Make  stronger  yet  the  hope  that  runs 

Before  thy  coming  smile ; 

And  haste  and  find  them  where  they  wait, 
Let  summer  winds  blow  down  that  way, 

And  all  they  long  for,  soon  or  late, 
Bring  round  to  them,  Someday. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


THE   MORNING  STAR. 

A    SINGLE  star,  how  bright, 
**•     From  earth-mists  free. 
In  heaven's  deep  shrine  its  image  bums ! 
Star  of  the  morn,  my  spirit  yearns 
To  be  with  thee. 

Lord  of  the  desert  sky ! 
Night's  last,  lone  heir, 
Benign  thou  smilest  from  on  high, 
Pure,  calm,  as  if  an  angel's  eye 
Were  watching  there. 


THE  MORNING  STAR. 

Not  wholly  vain  I  deem 

The  Magi  an  plan, 

That,  sphered  in  thee,  a  spirit  reigns 
Who  knows  this  earth,  and  kindly  deigns 
To  succor  man. 

Gone  are  thy  glittering  peers, 

Quenched  each  bright  spark, 
Save  where  some  pale  sun's  lingering  ghost, 
Dull  remnant  of  a  scattered  host, 

Still  spots  the  dark. 

But  thou,  propitious  star, 

Night's  youngest  born, 
Wilt  not  withdraw  thy  steady  light 
Till  bursts  on  yonder  snow-clad  height 

The  rosy  morn. 

Fair  orb !  I  love  to  watch 

Thy  tranquil  ray; 

Emblem  art  thou  of  Hope  that  springs 
When  joys  are  fled,  and  dreaming  brings 
The  better  day. 

So,  when  from  my  life's  course 

Its  joys  are  riven, 

Rise  o'er  the  death-mists  gathering  dun, 
Herald  of  an  eternal  sun, 
Rise,  hope  of  Heaven. 

FREDERIC  HENRY  HEDGE. 


42  THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 


DOUBT  AND   PRAYER. 

'THROUGH  Sin  too  oft,  when  smitten  by  Thy  rod, 
J-      Rail  at  "  Blind  Fate  "  with  many  a  vain  "  Alas ! " 
From  sin  through  sorrow  into  thee  we  pass 
By  that  same  path  our  true  forefathers  trod ; 
And  let  not  reason  fail  me,  nor  the  sod 
Draw  from  my  death  thy  living  flower  and  grass, 
Before  I  learn  that  Love,  which  is,  and  was 
My  Father,  and  my  Brother,  and  my  God ! 
Still  me  with  patience !  soften  me  with  grief ' 
Let  blow  the  trumpet  strongly  while  I  pray, 
Till  this  embattled  wall  of  unbelief, 
My  prison,  not  my  fortress,  fall  away ! 
Then,  if  thou  wiliest,  let  my  day  be  brief, 
So  thou  wilt  strike  thy  glory  through  the  day. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


OLD   AND  YOUNG, 
i. 

soon  grow  old  who  grope  for  gold 
In  marts  where  all  is  bought  and  sold ; 
Who  live  for  self,  and  on  some  shelf 
In  darkened  vaults  hoard  up  their  pelf, 
Cankered  and  crusted  o'er  with  mould. 
For  them  their  youth  itself  is  old. 


LIGHT  OF  STARS.  43 

II. 

They  ne'er  grow  old  who  gather  gold 
Where  spring  awakes  and  flowers  unfold ; 
Where  suns  arise  in  joyous  skies, 
And  fill  the  soul  within  their  eyes. 
For  them  the  immortal  bards  have  sung, 
For  them  old  age  itself  is  young. 

CHRISTOPHER  P.  CRANCH. 


LIGHT  OF   STARS. 

T)LAINNESS    and  clearness  without  shadow  of 
A       stain! 
Clearness  divine ! 

Ye  Heavens,  whose  pure  dark  regions  have  no  sign 
Of  languor,  though  so  calm ;  and,  though  so  great, 
Are  yet  untroubled  and  unpassionate ; 
Who  though  so  noble  share  in  the  world's  toil, 
And  though  so  tasked  keep  free  from  dust  and  soil,  — 
•  I  will  not  say  that  your  mild  deeps  retain 
A  tinge,  it  may  be,  of  their  silent  pain 
Who  have  longed  deeply  once,  and  longed  in  vain ; 
But  I  will  rather  say  that  you  remain 
A  world  above  man's  head,  to  let  him  see 
How  boundless  might  his  soul's  horizons  be, 
How  vast,  yet  of  what  clear  transparency ; 
How  it  were  good  to  sink  there,  and  breathe  free  ; 
How  fair  a  lot  to  fill 

Is  left  to  each  man  still. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


44  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


THE   BETTER  WAY. 

WHO  drives  the  horses  of  the  sun 
Shall  lord  it  but  a  day ; 
Better  the  lowly  deed  were  done, 
And  kept  the  humble  way. 

The  rust  will  find  the  sword  of  fame ; 

The  dust  will  hide  the  crown ; 
Ay,  none  shall  nail  so  high  his  name 

Time  will  not  tear  it  down. 

The  happiest  heart  that  ever  beat 

Was  in  some  quiet  breast, 
That  found  the  common  daylight  sweet, 

And  left  to  Heaven  the  rest. 

ANONYMOUS. 


NO  NEED   TO  WATCH. 

LONG  looked  for  was  the  summer ;  anxious  eyes 
Noted  the  budding  bough,  the  crocus  flame 
That  told  its  coming.     Now  'neath  autumn  skies 
The  leaves  fall  slowly,  slowly  as  they  came. 

There  is  no  need  to  watch  while  winter  weaves 
Fair  buds  to  crown  another  golden  prime, 
For  something  heavier  than  the  autumn  leaves 
Has  hidden  eyes  that  looked  for  summer  time. 


ARRAIGNMENT.  45 

The  trees  shall  wake  from  their  forgetful  sleep 
Unto  new  blossom  and  a  tender  green,  — 
The  countless  trees  !  —  but  never  one  will  keep 
A  little  leaf  or  flower  that  she  has  seen. 

MARGARET  VELEY. 


ARRAIGNMENT. 

^ave  stonec*>  not  ye  w^°  have  smitten 

us,"  cry 

The  sad,  great  souls,  as  they  go  out  hence  into  dark, 
"  Not  ye  we  accuse,  though  for  you  was  our  passion 

borne; 

And  ye  we  reproach  not  who  silently  passed  us  by. 
We  forgive  blind  eyes  and  the  ears  that  would  not  hark, 
The  careless  and  causeless  hate  and  the  shallow  scorn. 

"  But  ye  who  have  seemed  to  know  us,  have  seen  and 

heard; 
Who  have  set  us  at  feasts  and  have  crowned  with  the 

costly  rose ; 
Who  have  spread  us  the  purple  of  praises  beneath  our 

feet; 
Yet  guessed  not  the  word  that  we  spake  was  a  living 

word, 
Applauding  the  sound,  —  we  account  you  as  worse 

than  foes! 
We  sobbed  you  our  message ;  ye  said, '  It  is  song,  and 

sweet  P" 

HELEN  GRAY  CONE. 


46  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


THE   CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS. 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl  which,  poets  feign, 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


SUB  PONDERE   CRESCIT.  47 


CHANGE. 

OOMETIMES,  when  after  spirited  debate 
^     Of  letters  or  affairs,  in  thought  I  go 

Smiling  unto  myself,  and  all  aglow 
With  some  immediate  purpose,  and  elate 
As  if  my  little,  trivial  scheme  were  great, 

And  what  I  would  so  were  already  so : 

Suddenly  I  think  of  her  that  died,  and  know, 
Whatever  friendly  or  unfriendly  fate 

Befall  me  in  my  hope  or  in  my  pride, 
It  is  all  nothing  but  a  mockery, 
And  nothing  can  be  what  it  used  to  be, 

When  I  could  bid  my  happy  life  abide, 
And  build  on  earth  for  perpetuity, 

Then,  in  the  deathless  days  before  she  died. 

WILLIAM  D.  HOWELLS. 


SUB   PONDERE   CRESCIT. 

CAN  this  be  he,  whose  morning  footstep  trod 
O'er  the  green  earth  as  in  a  regal  home? 
Whose  voice  rang  out  beneath  the  skyey  dome 
Like  the  high  utterance  of  a  youthful  god? 
Now  with  wan  looks  and  eyes  that  seek  the  sod, 
Restless  and  purposeless  as  ocean  foam, 
Across  the  twilight  fields  I  see  him  roam 
With   shoulders   bowed,  as  shrinking  from   the 
rod. 


48  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Oh,  lift  the  old-time  light  within  thine  eyes ! 

Set  free  the  pristine  passion  from  thy  tongue  ! 

Strength  grows  with  burdens ;   make  an  end  of 

sighs. 
Let  thy  thoughts  soar  again  their  mates  among, 

And,  as  yon  oriole's  eager  matins  rise, 

Abroad  once  more  be  thy  strong  anthem  flung ! 

THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 


SUNSET. 

*T*HE  children  gather  at  the  fence 
J-      (The  gate  swings  outward  to  the  west) 
And  watch  the  purple  hills,  from  whence 

The  father  comes  for  food  and  rest. 
Their  lengthened  shadows  fall  behind ; 

Their  faces  glow  the  while  they  wait 
To  bid  him  welcome,  when  they  find 

Their  father  coming  to  the  gate. 

We  turn  away  when  sunset  fills 

Our  valleys  with  a  glory  sweet, 
And  on  the  green  immortal  hills 

We  catch  the  sound  of  coming  feet . 
Our  lengthened  shadows  fall  before ; 

Our  faces  darken  as  we  wait. 
Ah,  foolish  children,  who  deplore 

Their  Father  coming  to  the  gate ! 

MARY  CHACE  PECKHAM. 


THE  GREA  T  ASSURANCE.  49 

THE   GREAT   ASSURANCE. 

A  Selection  from  "Saul" 

WHAT,  my  soul?  see  thus  far  and  no  farther? 
when  doors  great  and  small, 
Nine-and-ninety,  flew  ope  at   our  touch,  should  the 

hundredth  appall? 

In  the  least  things  have  faith,  yet  distrust  in  the  great- 
est of  all? 

Do  I  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's  ultimate  gift, 
That  I  doubt  his  own  love  can  compete  with  it?  here, 

the  parts  shift? 
Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  Creator,  the  end,  what 

Began  ?  — 
Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do  all  for  this 

man, 
And  dare  doubt  He  alone  shall  not  help  him,  who  yet 

alone  can  ? 
Would  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the  bare  will, 

much  less  power, 
To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the  marvellous 

dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with?  to  make  such 

a  soul, 
Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  earth  for  insphering 

the  whole  ? 
And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my  warm  tears 

attest) 
These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and  give  one 

more,  the  best  ? 

4 


50  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  maintain  at 

the  height 
This    perfection,  —  succeed    with    life's    dayspring, 

death's  minute  of  night? 

I  believe  it !  't  is  thou,  God,  that  givest,  't  is  I  who 

receive : 
In  the  first  is  the   last,  in  thy  will  is  my  power  to 

believe. 
All 's  one   gift :    thou  canst  grant   it,   moreover,   as 

prompt  to  my  prayer 
As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these  arms  to 

the  air. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


"THE  THINGS  THAT  ARE  MORE 
EXCELLENT." 

AS  we  wax  older  on  this  earth, 
Till  many  a  toy  that  charmed  us  seems 
Emptied  of  beauty,  stripped  of  worth, 

And  mean  as  dust  and  dead  as  dreams,  — 
For  gauds  that  perished,  shows  that  passed, 

Some  recompense  the  Fates  have  sent: 
Thrice  lovelier  shine  the  things  that  last, 
The  things  that  are  more  excellent. 

Naught  nobler  is  than  to  be  free ; 

The  stars  of  heaven  are  free  because 
In  amplitude  of  liberty 

Their  joy  is  to  obey  the  laws. 


"THINGS  THAT  ARE  MORE  EXCELLENT?'   5  I 

From  servitude  to  freedom's  name 
Free  thou  thy  mind  in  bondage  pent; 

Depose  the  fetich,  and  proclaim 
The  things  that  are  more  excellent. 

To  dress,  to  call,  to  dine,  to  break 

No  canon  of  the  social  code, 
The  little  laws  that  lackeys  make, 

The  futile  decalogue  of  Mode,  — 
How  many  a  soul  for  these  things  lives, 

With  pious  passion,  grave  intent ! 
While  Nature,  careless  handed,  gives 

The  things  that  are  more  excellent. 

To  hug  the  wealth  ye  cannot  use, 

And  lack  the  riches  all  may  gain,  — 
Oh,  blind  and  wanting  wit  to  choose, 

Who  house  the  chaff  and  burn  the  grain ! 
And  still  doth  life  with  starry  towers 

Lure  to  the  bright,  divine  ascent !  — 
Be  yours  the  things  ye  would :  be  ours 

The  things  that  are  more  excellent. 

The  grace  of  friendship,  —  mind  and  heart 

Linked  with  their  fellow  heart  and  mind ; 
The  gains  of  science,  gifts  of  art ; 

The  sense  of  oneness  with  our  kind; 
The  thirst  to  know  and  understand, 

A  large  and  liberal  discontent,  — 
These  are  the  goods  in  life's  rich  hand, 

The  things  that  are  more  excellent. 


52  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

In  faultless  rhythm  the  ocean  rolls, 

A  rapturous  silence  thrills  the  skies ; 
And  on  this  earth  are  lovely  souls, 

That  softly  look  with  aidful  eyes. 
Though  dark,  O  God,  thy  course  and  track, 

I  think  thou  must  at  least  have  meant 
That  naught  which  lives  should  wholly  lack 

The  things  that  are  more  excellent. 

WILLIAM  WATSON. 


THEOLOGY   IN   EXTREMIS. 

OFT  in  the  pleasant  summer  years, 
Reading  the  tales  of  days  bygone, 
I  have  mused  on  the  story  of  human  tears, 

All  that  man  unto  man  has  done, 
Massacre,  torture,  and  black  despair ; 
Reading  it  all  in  my  easy-chair. 

Passionate  prayer  for  a  minute's  life, 
Tortured  crying  for  death  as  rest, 

Husband  pleading  for  child  or  wife, 
Pitiless  stroke  upon  tender  breast,  — 

Was  it  all  real  as  that  I  lay  there 

Lazily  stretched  on  my  easy-chair  ? 

Could  I  believe  in  those  hard  old  times, 

Here  in  this  safe,  luxurious  age  ? 
Were  the  horrors  invented  to  season  rhymes, 


THEOLOGY  IN  EXTREMIS.  53 

Or  truly  is  man  so  fierce  in  his  rage  ? 
What  could  I  suffer  and  what  could  I  dare, 
I  who  was  bred  to  that  easy-chair? 

They  were  my  fathers,  the  men  of  yore, 
Little  they  recked  of  a  cruel  death ; 

They  would  dip  their  hands  in  a  heretic's  gore ; 
They  stood  and  burnt  for  a  rule  of  faith. 

What  would  I  burn  for,  and  whom  not  spare, 

I  who  had  faith  in  an  easy-chair  ? 

Now  do  I  see  old  tales  are  true, 
Here  in  the  clutch  of  a  savage  foe ; 

Now  shall  I  know  what  my  fathers  knew, 
Bodily  anguish  and  bitter  woe, 

Naked  and  bound  in  the  strong  sun's  glare, 

Far  from  my  civilized  easy-chair. 

Now  have  I  tasted  and  understood 
That  old-world  feeling  of  mortal  hate  ; 

For  the  eyes  all  round  us  are  hot  with  blood: 
They  will  kill  us  coolly,  —  they  do  but  wait ; 

While  I,  I  would  sell  ten  lives,  at  least, 

For  one  fair  stroke  at  that  devilish  priest. 

Just  in  return  for  the  kick  he  gave, 

Bidding  me  call  on  the  prophet's  name ; 

Even  a  dog  by  this  may  save 

Skin  from  the  knife  and  soul  from  the  flame ; 

My  soul !  if  he  can  let  the  prophet  burn  it,  — 

But  life  is  sweet  if  a  word  may  earn  it. 


54  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

A  bullock's  death,  and  at  thirty  years  ! 

Just  one  phrase  and  a  man  gets  off  it ; 
Look  at  that  mongrel  clerk  in  his  tears, 

Whining  aloud  the  name  of  the  prophet ! 
Only  a  formula  easy  to  patter, 
And,  God  Almighty,  what  can  it  matter  ? 

"  Matter  enough,"  will  my  comrade  say, 
Praying  aloud  here  close  at  my  side, 

"  Whether  you  mourn  in  despair  alway, 
Cursed  forever  by  Christ  denied ; 

Or  whether  you  suffer  a  minute's  pain, 

All  the  reward  of  heaven  to  gain." 

Not  for  a  moment  faltereth  he, 

Sure  of  the  promise  and  pardon  of  sin; 

Thus  did  the  martyrs  die,  I  see, 
Little  to  lose  and  muckle  to  win ; 

Death  means  heaven,  —  he  longs  to  receive  it. 

But  what  shall  I  do  if  I  don't  believe  it? 

Life  is  pleasant,  and  friends  may  be  nigh, 
Fain  would  I  speak  one  word  and  be  spared ; 

Yet  I  could  be  silent  and  cheerfully  die, 
If  I  were  only  sure  God  cared ; 

If  I  had  faith,  and  were  only  certain 

That  light  is  behind  that  terrible  curtain. 

But  what  if  he  listeth  nothing  at  all 

Of  words  a  poor  wretch  in  his  terror  may  say  ? 
That  mighty  God  who  created  all 


THEOLOGY  IN  EXTREMIS.  55 

To  labor  and  live  their  appointed  day,  — 
Who  stoops  not  either  to  bless  or  ban, 
Weaving  the  woof  of  an  endless  plan  ? 

He  is  the  Reaper  and  binds  the  sheaf ; 

Shall  not  the  season  its  order  keep? 
Can  it  be  changed  by  a  man's  belief  ? 

Millions  of  harvests  still  to  reap ; 
Will  God  reward,  if  I  die  for  a  creed, 
Or  will  he  but  pity,  and  sow  more  seed  ? 

Surely  he  pities  who  made  the  brain, 

When  breaks  that  mirror  of  memories  sweet, 

When  the  hard  blow  falleth,  and  never  again 
Nerve  shall  quiver  nor  pulse  shall  beat. 

Bitter  the  vision  of  vanishing  joys ; 

Surely  he  pities  when  man  destroys. 

Here  stand  I  on  the  ocean's  brink ; 

Who  hath  brought  news  of  the  further  shore  ? 
How  shall  I  cross  it  ?     Sail  or  sink, 

One  thing  is  sure,  I  return  no  more ; 
Shall  I  find  haven,  or  aye  shall  I  be 
Tossed  in  the  depths  of  a  shoreless  sea? 

They  tell  fair  tales  of  a  far-off  land, 

Of  love  rekindled,  of  forms  renewed  ; 
There  may  I  only  touch  one  hand, 

Here  life's  ruin  will  little  be  rued; 
But  the  hand  I  have  pressed  and  the  voice  I  have 
heard, 

To  lose  them  forever,  and  all  for  a  word ! 


56  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Now  do  I  feel  that  my  heart  must  break 
All  for  one  glimpse  of  a  woman's  face ; 

Swiftly  the  slumbering  memories  wake 
Odor  and  shadow  of  hour  and  place ; 

One  bright  ray  through  the  darkening  past 

Leaps  from  the  lamp  as  it  brightens  last, 

Showing  me  summer  in  western  land 

Now,  as  the  cool  breeze  murmureth 
In  leaf  and  flower — and  here  I  stand 

In  this  plain  all  bare  save  the  shadow  of  death ; 
Leaving  my  life  in  its  full  noonday, 
And  no  one  to  know  why  I  flung  it  away. 

Why  ?    Am  I  bidding  for  glory's  roll  ? 

I  shall  be  murdered  and  clean  forgot ; 
Is  it  a  bargain  to  save  my  soul? 

God,  whom  I  trust  in,  bargains  not ; 
Yet  for  the  honor  of  English  race, 
May  I  not  live  or  endure  disgrace. 

Ay,  but  the  word,  if  I  could  have  said  it, 

I  by  no  terrors  of  hell  perplext ! 
Hard  to  be  silent  and  have  no  credit 

From  man  in  this  world,  or  reward  in  the  next ; 
None  to  bear  witness  and  reckon  the  cost 
Of  the  name  that  is  saved  by  the  life  that  is  lost. 

I  must  be  gone  to  the  crowd  untold 

Of  men  by  the  cause  which  they  served  unknown, 
Who  moulder  in  myriad  graves  of  old ; 


THE   TWO  MYSTERIES.  57 

Never  a  story  and  never  a  stone 
Tells  of  the  martyrs  who  die  like  me, 
Just  for  the  pride  of  the  old  countree. 

ALFRED  LYALL. 


THE   TWO   MYSTERIES. 

WE  know  not  what  it  is,  dear,  this  sleep  so  deep 
and  still; 
The  folded  hands,  the  awful  calm,  the  cheek  so  pale 

and  chill ; 
The  lids  that  will  not  lift  again,  though  we  may  call 

and  call ; 

The  strange,  white  solitude  of  peace  that  settles 
over  all. 

We  know  not  what  it  means,  dear,  this  desolate  heart- 
pain; 

This  dread  to  take  our  daily  way,  and  walk  in  it  again ; 

We  know  not  to  what  other  sphere  the  loved  who 
leave  us  go, 

Nor  why  we  're  left  to  wonder  still,  nor  why  we  do  not 
know. 

But  this  we  know :  Our  loved  and  dead,  if  they  should 

come  this  day  — 
Should  come  and  ask  us,  "  What  is  life  ?  "  not  one  of 

us  could  say. 

Life  is  a  mystery  as  deep  as  ever  death  can  be ; 
Yet  oh,  how  dear  it  is  to  us,  this  life  we  live  and  see ! 


58  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Then  might  they  say,  —  these  vanished  ones,  —  and 

blessed  is  the  thought : 
"  So  death  is  sweet  to  us,  beloved  !  though  we  may 

show  you  naught ; 

We  may  not  to  the  quick  reveal  the  mystery  of  death,  — 
Ye  cannot  tell  us,  if  ye  would,  the  mystery  of  breath." 

The  child  who  enters  life  comes  not  with  knowledge 
or  intent ; 

So  those  who  enter  death  must  go  as  little  children 
sent. 

Nothing  is  known.     But  I  believe  that  God  is  over- 
head; 

And  as  life  is  to  the  living,  so  death  is  to  the  dead. 

MARY  MAPES  DODGE. 


EPITAPH    FOR    A    SAILOR    BURIED 
ASHORE. 

HE  who  but  yesterday  would  roam 
Careless  as  clouds  and  currents  range, 
In  homeless  wandering  most  at  home, 
Inhabiter  of  change ; 

Who  wooed  the  West  to  win  the  East, 
And  named  the  stars  from  North  to  South, 

And  felt  the  zest  of  freedom's  feast 
Familiar  in  his  mouth ; 


OPPORTUNITY.  59 

Who  found  a  faith  in  stranger  speech 

And  fellowship  in  foreign  hands, 
And  had  within  his  eager  reach 

The  relish  of  all  lands,  — 

How  circumscribed  a  plot  of  earth 
Keeps  now  his  restless  footsteps  still, 

Whose  wish  was  wide  as  ocean's  girth, 
Whose  will  the  water's  will ! 

CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS. 


OPPORTUNITY. 

THIS  I  beheld  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream :  — 
There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain ; 
And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 
A  furious  battle,  and  men  yelled,  and  swords 
Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields.    A  prince's  banner 
Wavered,  then  staggered  backward  hemmed  by  foes. 
A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 
And  thought,  "  Had  I  a  sword  of  keener  steel  — 
That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son  bears  —  but  this 
Blunt  thing  —  "    He  snapt  and  flung  it  from  his  hand, 
And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 
Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore  bestead, 
And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword, 
Hilt  buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand, 
And  ran,  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle-shout 
Lifted  afresh  he  hewed  his  enemy  down, 
And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 


6O  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


EVER  WOMANLY. 

SET  her  among  the  angels!  let  her  shine  a  star! 
Nay,  call  her  woman,  never  more  divine 
Than  when  she  walks  the  levels  where   our  human 

longings  are, 
And  lightens  up  the  prison  where  we  pine. 

Be  angel  to  my  worship !  be  star  my  steps  to  lead 
From  earth's  deep  gloom  to  thy  radiance  above  ! 

The  daily  inspiration  of  thine  influence  I  need; 
But,  oh,  be  simply  woman  to  my  love ! 

WILLIAM  ROSCOE  THAYER. 


RENASCENCE. 

I  MUSE  in  shadow,  knowing  naught 
How  deep  this  twilight  sad  and  dark 
May  gloom  before  the  dawn  is  fraught 
With  light  for  some  full-throated  lark. 

I  am  content :  the  night  may  fall 
And  brood  with  more  than  ebon  wing, 

But  at  the  appointed  time  and  call 
The  sun  shall  rise,  the  lark  shall  sing. 

JOHN  H.  BONER. 


BUILDING   THE  FUTURE.  6 1 


BUILDING  THE  FUTURE. 

O  TRUTH  !  O  Freedom  !  how  are  ye  still  born 
In  the  rude  stable,  in  the  manger  nursed ! 
What  humble  hands  unbar  those  gates  of  morn, 
Through  which  the  splendors  of   the   New   Day 
burst ! 

Who  is  it  will  not  dare  himself  to  trust  ? 

Who  is  it  hath  not  strength  to  stand  alone  ? 
Who  is  it  thwarts  and  bilks  the  inward  Must? 

He  and  his  works  like  sand  from  earth  are  blown. 

Shall  we  not  heed  the  lesson  taught  of  old, 
And  by  the  Present's  lips  repeated  still, 

In  our  own  simple  manhood  to  be  bold, 
Fortressed  in  conscience  and  impregnable  will? 

We  stride  the  river  daily  at  its  spring, 

Nor,  in  our  childish  thoughtlessness,  foresee 

What  myriad  vassal  streams  shall  tribute  bring, 
How  like  an  equal  it  shall  greet  the  sea. 

O  small  beginnings,  ye  are  great  and  strong, 
Based  on  a  faithful  heart  and  weariless  brain ! 

Ye  build  the  future  fair,  ye  conquer  wrong, 
Ye  earn  the  crown  and  wear  it  not  in  vain. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


62  THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 


WHAT   IS   TO   COME. 

WHAT  is  to  come  we  know  not ;  but  we  know 
That  what  has  been  was  good,  —  was  good  to 

show, 

Better  to  hide,  and  best  of  all  to  bear. 
We  are  the  masters  of  the  days  that  were. 
We  have  lived,  we  have  loved,  we  have  suffered  — 
even  so. 

Shall  we  not  take  the  ebb  who  had  the  flow? 
Life  was  our  friend.    Now,  if  it  be  our  foe, 
Dear,  —  though  it  spoil  and  break  us,  —  need  we  care 
What  is  to  come  ? 

Let  the  great  winds  their  worst  and  wildest  blow, 
Or  the  gold  weather  round  us  mellow  slow ; 
We  have  fulfilled  ourselves,  and  we  can  dare, 
And  we  can  conquer,  though  we  may  not  share 
In  the  rich  quiet  of  the  afterglow, 

What  is  to  come. 

WILLIAM  E.  HENLEY. 


BEYOND  THE  CLOUDS. 

WILD,  wandering  clouds,  that  none  can  tame, 
Shake  the  sweet  rain  out  to  the  ground ! 
The  sky  beyond  is  still  the  same, 

Beyond  you  hangs  the  clear  blue  round. 


SUNRISE  NEVER  FAILS.  6$ 

Come,  Night,  and  bind  the  world  again 
With  sevenfold  darkness  as  with  bars  ! 

Upward,  the  path  will  still  be  plain,  — 
The  pathway  lighted  by  the  stars. 

WILLIAM  BRIGHTY  RANDS. 


SUNRISE   NEVER   FAILS. 

UPON  the  sadness  of  the  sea 
The  sunset  broods  regretfully ; 
From  the  far,  lonely  spaces,  slow 
Withdraws  the  wistful  afterglow. 

So  out  of  life  the  splendor  dies, 
So  darken  all  the  happy  skies, 
So  gathers  twilight  cold  and  stern; 
But  overhead  the  planets  burn. 

And  up  the  east  another  day 
Shall  chase  the  bitter  dark  away. 
What  though  our  eyes  with  tears  be  wet? 
The  sunrise  never  failed  us  yet. 

The  blush  of  dawn  may  yet  restore 
Our  light  and  hope  and  joys  once  more. 
Sad  soul,  take  comfort,  nor  forget 
That  sunrise  never  failed  us  yet ! 

CELIA  THAXTER. 


64  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


TO   WALK  WITH   GOD. 

*T*O  walk  with  God !  —  to  feel  no  more  alone 
•*•      Amid  the  Vast,  wherein  I  breathed  in  fear; 
To  cry  for  help  no  more,  nor  utter  moan, 

So  sure  that  he  who  made  and  guides  is  near ; 
Whether  the  tempest  drive  against  my  face, 

Or  Summer's  lavish  blossom  strew  my  way, 
To  miss  his  presence  not  in  any  place, 
By  night  or  day,  — 

How  sweet  it  is!  how  different  from  my  lot 

Through  those  long  years  of  doubt  and  grief  and 

pain, 
Of  love  that  looked  for  love  and  found  it  not, 

Of  thought  that  climbed  for  light  and  climbed  in 

vain! 
How  different  from  the  dread  perplexity 

Wherein  with  trembling  feet  the  waste  I  trod, 
Not  knowing  when  the  bolt  might  fall  on  me 
Of  Fate  or  God ! 

How  sweet  it  is  —  not  holding  now  the  creed 

Which  dwarfs  the  Maker  to  his  creature's  height, 

Or  to  his  hand  imputes  a  baffled  deed, 

Or  doubts  the  certain  victory  of  his  might, 

Or  falters  in  allegiance  to  his  love  — 

To  cast  away  all  fear  of  hovering  doom, 

And  onward,  trustful  of  his  mercy,  move, 
In  sun  or  gloom  ! 


NEARING   THE  END.  65 

To  walk  with  God !  —  to  drink  with  fearless  heart 

The  beauty  and  the  marvel  of  his  earth ; 
To  dote  upon  the  wings  that  round  me  dart; 

To  revel  in  the  summer's  reinless  mirth, 
Or  bear  with  patient  breast  the  winter's  woe, 

And  shrink  not  from  misfortune's  bitterest  breath, 
Still  trusting  Good  through  every  throb  and  throe 
Of  life  or  death. 

GEORGE  F.  S.  ARMSTRONG. 


NEARING   THE   END. 

THE  voyage  draws  near  its  end;  the  westering  sun 
Shorn  of  its  noonday  heat,  yet  full  of  light, 
Marks  the  smooth  waters  with  a  glory  bright, 
Richer  than  pearly  gleams  from  morning  won. 

The  shore,  which  when  our  voyage  was  but  begun 
Lay  so  remote  beyond  even  thought's  far  flight, 
Now  on  the  horizon  lifts  itself  to  sight : 

Sees  it  our  failure,  or  our  work  well  done  ? 

Something  perhaps  of  both  the  voyage  has  brought, 
Of  our  large  venture  something  must  avail ; 
For  dreams  of  youth  we  have  the  faith  of  age, 

By  knowledge  chastened,  by  experience  taught ! 
And  now  the  time  has  come  to  shorten  sail ; 
The  tranquil  harbor  calls  to  anchorage ! 

SAMUEL  LONGFELLOW. 
5 


66  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

THE   GLORIOUS   COMPANY. 

"  TRACES,  faces,  faces  of  the  streaming,  marching 

-T  surge, 

Streaming  on  the  weary  road,  toward  the  awful  steep, 
Whence  your  glow  and  glory,  as  ye  set  to  that  sharp 

verge, 
Faces  lit  as  sunlit  stars,  shining  as  ye  sweep  ? 

"Whence  this  wondrous  radiance  that  ye  somehow 

catch  and  cast, 

Faces  rapt,  that  one  discerns  'mid  the  dusky  press 
Herding  in  dull  wonder,  gathering  fearful  to  the  Vast? 
Surely  all  is  dark  before,  night  of  nothingness ! " 

"Lo,  the  Light!"  they  answer.    "O  the  pure,  the 

pulsing  Light, 

Beating  like  a  heart  of  life,  like  a  heart  of  love ; 
Soaring,  searching,  filling  all  the  breadth  and  depth 

and  height, 
Welling,   whelming   with    its    peace    worlds   below, 

above!" 

"O  my  soul,  how  art  thou  to  that  living  Splendor 

blind, 

Sick  with  thy  desire  to  see  even  as  these  men  see  ! 
Yet  to  look  upon  them  is  to  know  that  God  hath 

shined : 
Faces  lit  as  sunlit  stars,  be  all  my  light  to  me ! " 

HELEN  GRAY  CONE. 


SUPERSTITION.  67 


THE  TWO   ARMIES. 

AS  Life's  unending  column  pours, 
Two  marshalled  hosts  are  seen,  — 
Two  armies  on  the  trampled  shores 
That  Death  flows  black  between. 

One  marches  to  the  drumbeat's  roll, 
The  wide-mouthed  clarion's  bray, 

And  bears,  upon  a  crimson  scroll, 
41  Our  glory  is  to  slay." 

One  moves  in  silence  by  the  stream, 

With  sad,  yet  watchful  eyes, 
Calm  as  the  patient  planet's  gleam 

That  walks  the  clouded  skies. 

Along  its  front  no  sabres  shine, 

No  blood-red  pennons  wave ; 
Its  banner  bears  the  single  line, 

"  Our  duty  is  to  save." 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


SUPERSTITION. 

AMID  the  verdure  on  the  prairies  wide, 
There  stretches  o'er  the  undulating  floor, 
As  on  the  edges  of  an  ocean-shore, 
From  east  to  west,  half  buried,  side  by  side, 


68  THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 

A  chain  of  bowlders  that  the  icy  tide 
Of  glacial  epoch,  centuries  before, 
From  arctic  hills  superfluously  bore, 

And  left  in  southern  summers  to  abide. 

So  on  the  landscape  of  our  times  is  seen 
The  rough  cttbris  of  error's  old  moraines. 
The  superstitions  of  a  thousand  creeds, 
Half-buried,  peer  above  the  waving  green ; 
But  kindly  time  will  cover  their  remains 
Beneath  a  sod  of  noble  thoughts  and  deeds. 

IRONQUILL. 


INTIMATION. 

ONLY  — but  this  is  rare  - 
When  a  beloved  hand  is  laid  in  ours, 
When,  jaded  with  the  rush  and  glare 
Of  the  interminable  hours, 
Our  eyes  can  in  another's  eyes  read  clear, 
When  our  world-deafened  ear 
Is  by  the  tones  of  a  loved  voice  caress'd,  — 

A  bolt  is  shot  back  somewhere  in  our  breast, 
And  a  lost  pulse  of  feeling  stirs  again ; 
The  eye  sinks  inward,  and  the  heart  lies  plain, 
And  what  we  mean  we  say,  and  what  we  would  we 

know. 

A  man  becomes  aware  of  his  life's  flow, 
And  hears  its  winding  murmur,  and  he  sees 
The  meadow  where  it  glides,  the  sun,  the  breeze. 


ANGEL   OF  PAIN.  69 

And  there  arrives  a  lull  in  the  hot  race 
Wherein  he  doth  forever  chase 
That  flying  and  elusive  shadow,  Rest. 
An  air  of  coolness  plays  upon  his  face, 
And  an  unwonted  calm  pervades  his  breast. 

And  then  he  thinks  he  knows 
The  Hills  where  his  life  rose, 
And  the  Sea  where  it  goes. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


ANGEL  OF   PAIN. 

ANGEL  of  Pain,  I  think  thy  face 
Will  be,  in  all  the  heavenly  place, 
The  sweetest  face  that  I  shall  see, 
The  swiftest  face  to  smile  on  me. 
All  other  angels  faint  and  tire ; 
Joy  wearies,  and  forsakes  Desire ; 
Hope  falters,  face  to  face  with  Fate, 
And  dies  because  it  cannot  wait ; 
And  Love  cuts  short  each  loving  day, 
Because  fond  hearts  cannot  obey 
That  subtlest  law  which  measures  bliss 
By  what  it  is  content  to  miss. 
But  thou,  O  loving,  faithful  Pain,  — 
Hated,  reproached,  rejected,  slain,  — 
Dost  only  closer  cling  and  bless 
In  sweeter,  stronger  steadfastness. 
Dear,  patient  angel,  to  thine  own 
Thou  comest,  and  art  never  known 


70  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Till,  late,  in  some  lone  twilight  place, 
The  light  of  thy  transfigured  face 
Shines  sudden  out,  and,  speechless,  they 
Know  they  have  walked  with  God  all  day. 

ANONYMOUS. 

TOGETHER. 

O  WEET  hand  that,  held  in  mine, 
^     Seems  the  one  thing  I  cannot  live  without, 
The  soul's  one  anchorage  in  this  storm  and  doubt, 
I  take  thee  as  the  sign 

Of  sweeter  days  in  store 
For  life,  and  more  than  life,  when  life  is  done, 
And  thy  soft  pressure  leads  me  gently  on 

To  heaven's  own  Evermore. 

I  have  not  much  to  say, 
Nor  any  words  that  fit  such  fond  request : 
Let  my  blood  speak  to  thine,  and  bear  the  rest 

Some  silent,  heartward  way. 

Thrice  blest  the  faithful  hand 
Which  saves  e'en  while  it  blesses :  hold  me  fast ; 
Let  me  not  go  beneath  the  floods  at  last, 

So  near  the  better  land. 

Sweet  hand  that,  thus  in  mine, 
Seems  the  one  thing  I  cannot  live  without, 
My  heart's  one  anchor  in  life's  storm  and  doubt, 

Take  this  and  make  me  thine. 

JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  (?) 


LOSSES.  71 


LOSSES. 

UPON  the  white  sea  sand 
There  sat  a  pilgrim  band, 
Telling  the  losses  that  their  lives  had  known, 
While  evening  waned  away 
From  breezy  cliff  and  bay, 
And  the  strong  tides  went  out  with  weary  moan. 

Some  talked  of  vanished  gold ; 

Some,  of  proud  honors  told ; 
Some  spoke  of  friends  that  were  their  trust  no  more ; 

And  one,  of  a  green  grave 

Beside  a  foreign  wave, 
That  made  him  sit  so  lonely  on  the  shore. 

But  when  their  tales  were  done, 

There  spake  among  them  one, 
A  stranger,  seeming  from  all  sorrow  free : 

"  Sad  losses  have  ye  met, 

But  mine  is  heavier  yet, 
For  a  believing  heart  hath  gone  from  me.""1 

"  Alas,"  those  pilgrims  said, 

"  For  the  living  and  the  dead; 
For  fortune's  cruelty  and  love's  sure  cross ; 

For  the  wrecks  of  land  and  sea ! 

But,  however  it  came  to  thee, 
Thine,  stranger,  is  life's  last  and  heaviest  loss." 

FRANCES  BROWN. 


72  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


I 


CALVARY. 

*F  he  could  doubt  on  his  triumphant  cross, 

How  much  more  I,  in  the  defeat  and  loss 
Of  seeing  all  my  selfish  dreams  fulfilled, 
Of  having  lived  the  very  life  I  willed, 
Of  being  all  that  I  desired  to  be  ? 
My  God,  my  God  !  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ? 

WILLIAM  D.  Ho  WELLS. 


IF  ENDLESS   SLEEP. 

AND  if  there  be  no  meeting  past  the  grave, 
If  all  is  darkness,  silence,  yet 't  is  rest. 
Be  not  afraid,  ye  waiting  hearts  that  weep, 
For  God  still  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 
And  if  an  endless  sleep  he  wills,  —  so  best. 

MRS.  THOMAS  H.  HUXLEY. 


THE   CHILD   IN   THE   MIDST. 

GREAT,  wide,  beautiful,  wonderful  World, 
With  the  wonderful  water  round  you  curled, 
And  the  wonderful  grass  upon  your  breast,  — 
World,  you  are  beautifully  drest. 

The  wonderful  air  is  over  me, 
And  the  wonderful  wind  is  shaking  the  tree ; 
It  walks  on  the  water,  and  whirls  the  mills, 
And  talks  to  itself  on  the  tops  of  the  hills. 


EPILOGUE.  73 

You  friendly  Earth !  how  far  do  you  go, 

With  the  wheatfields  that  nod,  and  the  rivers  that 

flow; 

With  cities,  and  gardens,  and  cliffs,  and  isles, 
And  people  upon  you  for  thousands  of  miles  ? 

Ah,  you  are  so  great  and  I  am  so  small, 

I  tremble  to  think  of  you,  World,  at  all ; 

And  yet,  when  I  said  my  prayers  to-day, 

A  whisper  inside  me  seemed  to  say, 

"You  are  more  than  the  Earth,  though  you  are  such 

a  dot: 
You  can  love  and  think,  and  the  Earth  cannot! " 

WILLIAM  BRIGHTY  RANDS. 


EPILOGUE. 

AT  the  midnight,  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 
When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 
Will  they  pass  to  where  —  by  death,  fools  think,  im- 
prisoned — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you  love  so, 

—  Pity  me? 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken  ! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 

With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel 

—  Being  —  who? 


74  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

One  who  never  turned  his  back,  but  marched  breast 

forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,  though   right  were   worsted,  wrong 

would  triumph, 

Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noontide,  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time, 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer ! 

Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
"  Strive  and  thrive  ! "  cry,  "  Speed,  fight  on,  fare  ever 

There  as  here!" 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


A  SONG   OF  THE  CRUISE. 

OH,  the  sun  and  the  rain,  and  the  rain  and  the  sun  ! 
There  '11  be  sunshine  again  when  the  tempest  is 

done; 
And  the  storm  will  beat  back  when  the  shining  is 

past, 

But  in  some  happy  haven  we'll  anchor  at  last. 
Then  murmur  no  more, 
In  lull  or  in  roar, 
But  smile  and  be  brave  till  the  voyage  is  o'er. 

Oh,  the  rain  and  the  sun,  and  the  sun  and  the  rain ! 
When  the  tempest  is  done,  then  the  sunshine  again ; 


ODE   TO  DUTY.  75 

And  in  rapture  we  11  ride  through  the  stormiest  gales, 
For  God's  hand  's  on  the  helm,  and  his  breath  in  the 

sails. 

Then  murmur  no  more, 
In  lull  or  in  roar, 
But  smile  and  be  brave  till  the  voyage  is  o'er. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


ODE  TO   DUTY. 

STERN  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  ! 
O  duty !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring  and  reprove ; 
Thou  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe ; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free ; 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth : 
Glad  hearts !  without  reproach  or  blot, 
Who  do  thy  work  and  know  it  not ; 
May  joy  be  theirs  while  life  shall  last ! 
And  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach  them  to  stand 
fast! 


76  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Serene  will  be  our  days,  and  bright 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  blest  are  they  who  in  the  main 

This  faith,  even  now,  do  entertain ; 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed, 

Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried, 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 

Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust; 

Full  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 

Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 

The  task  imposed,  from  day  to  day  ; 

But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control, 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance  desires ; 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name; 

I  long  for  a  repose  which  ever  is  the  same. 

Yet  not  the  less  would  I  throughout 
Still  act  according  to  the  voice 
Of  my  own  wish,  and  feel  past  doubt 
That  my  submissiveness  was  choice, 


CONSCIENCE.  77 

Not  seeking  in  the  school  of  pride 

For  precepts  over-dignified, 

Denial  and  restraint  I  prize 

No  farther  than  they  breed  a  second  Will  more  wise. 

Stern  lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face ; 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong, 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  thee,  are  fresh 
and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  power ! 

I  call  thee :  I  myself  commend 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour. 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end ! 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice ; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth,  thy  bondman  let  me  live ! 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

CONSCIENCE. 

JUDGE  me  not  as  I  judge  myself,  O  Lord! 
Show  me  some  mercy,  or  I  may  not  live; 
Let  the  good  in  me  go  without  reward ; 
Forgive  the  evil  I  cannot  forgive ! 

WILLIAM  D.  HOWELLS. 


78  THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 


A  LOW  ESTATE. 

THIS  is  the  night  when  I  must  die, 
And  great  Orion  walketh  high 
In  silent  glory  overhead : 
He  '11  set  just  after  I  am  dead. 

A  week  this  night,  I  'm  in  my  grave; 
Orion  walketh  o'er  the  wave  : 
Down  in  the  dark,  damp  earth  I  lie, 
While  he  doth  march  in  majesty. 

A  few  weeks  hence  and  spring  will  come; 
The  earth  will  bright  array  put  on 
Of  daisy  and  of  primrose  bright, 
And  everything  which  loves  the  light. 

And  some  one  to  my  child  will  say, 

"  You  '11  soon  forget  that  you  could  play 

Beethoven ;  let  us  hear  a  strain 

From  that  slow  movement  once  again." 

And  so  she  '11  play  that  melody, 
While  I,  unconscious,  here  do  lie, 
Dead  to  them  all,  forever  dead, 
The  churchyard  clay  dense  overhead. 

I  once  did  think  there  might  be  mine 
One  friendship  perfect  and  divine ; 
Alas  !  that  dream  dissolved  in  tears 
Before  I  'd  counted  twenty  years. 


A  LOW  ESTATE.  79 

For  I  was  ever  commonplace ; 

Of  genius  never  had  a  trace  ; 

My  thoughts  the  world  have  never  fed, 

Mere  echoes  of  the  book  last  read. 

Those  whom  I  know  I  cannot  blame ; 
If  they  are  cold,  I  am  the  same. 
How  could  they  ever  show  to  me 
More  than  a  common  courtesy  ? 

There  is  no  deed  which  I  have  done, 
There  is  no  love  which  I  have  won, 
To  make  them  for  a  moment  grieve 
That  I  this  night  their  earth  must  leave. 

Thus  moaning  at  the  break  of  day, 
A  man  upon  his  deathbed  lay ; 
A  moment  more  and  all  was  still ; 
The  Morning  Star  came  o'er  the  hill. 

But  when  the  dawn  lay  on  his  face, 
It  kindled  an  immortal  grace, 
As  if  in  death  that  Life  were  shown 
Which  lives  not  in  the  great  alone. 

Orion  sank  down  in  the  west 
Just  as  he  sank  into  his  rest ; 
I  closed  in  solitude  his  eyes, 
And  watched  him  till  the  sun's  uprise. 

W.  HALE  WHITE. 


80  THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 


ALL'S   WELL. 

SWEET-VOICED  Hope,  thy  fine  discourse 
Foretold  not  half  life's  good  to  me ; 
Thy  painter,  Fancy,  hath  not  force 
To  show  how  sweet  it  is  to  be! 
Thy  witching  dream 
And  pictured  scheme 
To  match  the  fact  still  want  the  power ; 
Thy  promise  brave 
From  birth  to  grave 
Life's  boon  may  beggar  in  an  hour. 

Ask  and  receive,  —  't  is  sweetly  said. 

Yet  what  to  plead  for  know  I  not ; 
For  Wish  is  worsted,  Hope  o'ersped, 

And  aye  to  thanks  returns  my  thought. 

If  I  would  pray, 

I  've  naught  to  say 
But  this,  that  God  may  be  God  still; 

For  him  to  live 

Is  still  to  give, 
And  sweeter  than  my  wish  his  will. 

O  wealth  of  life  beyond  all  bound ! 
Eternity  each  moment  given ! 
What  plummet  may  the  present  sound  ? 
Who  promises  a  future  heaven? 
Or  glad  or  grieved, 
Oppressed,  relieved, 


ALL'S    WELL.  8 1 

In  blackest  night  or  brightest  day, 

Still  pours  the  flood 

Of  golden  good, 
And  more  than  heartfull  fills  me  aye. 

My  wealth  is  common ;  I  possess 

%      No  petty  province,  but  the  whole ; 

What 's  mine  alone  is  mine  far  less 

Than  treasure  shared  by  every  soul. 

Talk  not  of  store, 

Millions  or  more,  — 
Of  values  which  the  purse  may  hold,  — 

But  this  divine ! 

I  own  the  mine 
Whose  grains  outweigh  a  planet's  gold. 

I  have  a  stake  in  every  star, 

In  every  beam  that  fills  the  day; 
All  hearts  of  men  my  coffers  are, 
My  ores  arterial  tides  convey; 

The  fields,  the  skies, 

And  sweet  replies 
Of  thought  to  thought  are  my  gold-dust, — 

The  oaks,  the  brooks, 

And  speaking  looks 
Of  lovers'  faith  and  friendship's  trust. 

Love's  youngest  tides  joy-brimming  flow 
For  him  who  lives  above  all  years, 

Who  all-immortal  makes  the  Now, 

And  is  not  ta'en  in  Time's  arrears ; 
6 


82  THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 

His  life  's  a  hymn 

The  seraphim 
Might  hark  to  hear  or  help  to  sing, 

And  to  his  soul 

The  boundless  whole 
Its  bounty  all  doth  daily  bring. 

"  All  mine  is  thine,"  the  sky-soul  saith ; 
"  The  wealth  I  am  must  thou  becc 
Richer  and  richer,  breath  by  breath,  — 
Immortal  gain,  immortal  room ! ' 
And  since  all  his 
Mine  also  is, 

Life's  gift  outruns  my  fancies  far, 
And  drowns  the  dream 
In  larger  stream, 
As  morning  drinks  the  morning  i  ,<tr. 

DAVID  A.  WASSON. 


AD   MAJOREM    DEI   GLORIAM. 

HTHY  glory  alone,  O  God,  be  the  end  of  all  'hat  I 

-I  say;  ^ 

Let  it  shine  in  every  deed,  let  it  kindle  the  prayers  trit 

I  pray; 
Let  it  burn  in  my  innermost  soul,  till  the  shadow  ol 

self  pass  away, 

And  the  light  of  thy  glory,  O  God,  be  unveiled  in  the 
dawning  of  day. 

FREDERICK  GEORGE  SCOTT. 


GOTT  UNO    WELT.  83 

GOTT   UND   WELT. 

Translated  from  Johann  Wolfgang  Goethe. 

;  '0  Him  who  from  eternity,  self-stirred, 

Himself  hath  made  by  His  creative  word! 
,  Supreme,  who  causeth  faith  to  be, 
ove,  hope,  power,  and  endless  energy! 

who,  seek  to  name  Him  as  we  will, 
Union        within  Himself,  abideth  still! 

Strain  ear  and  eye,  till  sight  and  sense  be  dim, 
Thou  'It  find  but  faint  similitudes  of  Him. 
Yea,  and  thy  spirit,  in  her  flight  of  flame, 
Still  strives^  tp  gauge  the  symbol  and  the  name. 
Charmed  ana  compelled,  thou  climb'st  from  height  to 

"height, 

And  round   -iy  path  the  world  shines  wondrous  bright ; 
Time,  »p    ,e,  and  size,  and  distance  cease  to  be, 
And  every  step  is  fresh  infinity. 

W^/af  were  the  God  who  sat  outside  to  scan 
The  spheres  that  'neath  His  fingers  circling  ran? 
>r5od  dwells  within,  and  moves  the  world  and  moulds, 
Himself  and  Nature  in  one  form  enfolds ; 
Thus  all  that  lives  in  Him,  and  breathes,  and  is, 
Shall  ne'er  His  puissance,  ne'er  His  spirit  miss. 

The  soul  of  man,  too,  is  an  universe ; 
Whence  follows  it  that  race  with  race  concurs 


84  THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 

In  naming  all  it  knows  of  good  and  true 
God,  —  yea,  its  own  God ;  and,  with  homage  due, 
Surrenders  to  His  sway  both  earth  and  heaven ; 
Hears  Him,  and  loves,  where  place  for  love  is  given. 
JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


HOW  BEAUTIFUL  TO   BE   ALIVE! 

HOW  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive  f 
To  wake  each  morn  as  if  the  Maker's  grace 
Did  us  afresh  from  nothingness  derive, 
That  we  might  sing,  How  happy  is  our  caseJ 
How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive ! 

To  read  in  some  good  book  until  we  feel 
Love  for  the  one  who  wrote  it ;  then  to  kneel 
Close  unto  Him  whose  love  our  souls  will  shrive, 
While  every  moment's  joy  doth  more  reveal 
How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive. 

Rather  to  go  without  what  might  increase 
Our  worldly  standing  than  our  souls  deprive 
Of  frequent  speech  with  God,  or  than  to  cease 
To  feel,  through  having  lost  our  health  and  peace, 
How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive. 

Not  to  forget,  when  pain  and  grief  draw  nigh, 
Into  the  ocean  of  time  past  to  dive 
For  memories  of  God's  mercies ;  or  to  try 
To  bear  all  nobly,  hoping  still  to  cry, 
How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive. 


THE  HEAVENS  DECLARE  THY  GLORY.     85 

Thus  ever,  towards  man's  height  of  nobleness, 
Striving  some  new  progression  to  contrive ; 
Till,  just  as  any  other  friend's,  we  press 
Death's  hand,  and,  having  died,  feel  none  the  less 
How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive. 

HENRY  SEPTIMUS  SUTTON. 


r 


THE   HEAVENS   DECLARE   THY   GLORY. 


T 


'H IS  world  I  deem 

But  a  beautiful  dream 
Of  shadows  that  are  not  what  they  seem, 
Where  visions  rise, 
Giving  dim  surmise 
Of  the  things  that  shall  meet  our  waking  eyes. 

Arm  of  the  Lord ! 

Creating  Word ! 
Whose  glory  the  silent  skies  record 

Where  stands  thy  name 

In  scrolls  of  flame 
On  the  firmament's  high-shadowing  frame, 

I  gaze  o'erhead, 

Where  thy  hand  hath  spread 
For  the  waters  of  heaven  that  crystal  bed, 

And  stored  the  dew 

In  its  deeps  of  blue, 
Which  the  fires  of  the  sun  come  tempered  through. 


86  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

I  gaze  aloof 

On  the  tissued  roof, 
Where  time  and  space  are  the  warp  and  woof, 

Which  the  King  of  kings 

As  a  curtain  flings 
O'er  the  dreadfulness  of  eternal  things,  — 

A  tapestried  tent 

To  shade  us  meant 
From  the  bare,  everlasting  firmament, 

Where  the  blaze  of  the  skies 

Comes  soft  to  our  eyes 
Through  a  veil  of  mystical  imageries. 

But  could  I  see 

As  in  truth  they  be 
The  glories  of  heaven  that  encompass  me, 

I  should  lightly  hold 

The  tissued  fold 
Of  that  marvellous  curtain  of  blue  and  gold. 

THOMAS  WHYTEHEAD. 


SAVED   BY  HOPE. 

WHAT  can  we  do  to  whom  the  unbeholden 
Hangs  in  a  night  with  which  we  cannot  cope? 
What  but  look  sunward,  and  with  faces  golden 
Speak  to  each  other  softly  of  a  hope  ? 

FREDERIC  W.  H.  MYERS. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE.  8/ 


AULD   LANG   SYNE. 

IT  singeth  low  in  every  heart, 
We  hear  it  each  and  all,  — 
A  song  of  those  who  answer  not, 

However  we  may  call ; 
They  throng  the  silence  of  the  breast, 

We  see  them  as  of  yore,  — 
The  kind,  the  brave,  the  true,  the  sweet, 
Who  walk  with  us  no  more. 

'T  is  hard  to  take  the  burden  up, 

When  these  have  laid  it  down ; 
They  brightened  all  the  joy  of  life, 

They  softened  every  frown ; 
But,  oh,  't  is  good  to  think  of  them 

When  we  are  troubled  sore  ! 
Thanks  be  to  God  that  such  have  been, 

Although  they  are  no  more  ! 

More  homelike  seems  the  vast  unknown, 

Since  they  have  entered  there; 
To  follow  them  were  not  so  hard, 

Wherever  they  may  fare ; 
They  cannot  be  where  God  is  not, 

On  any  sea  or  shore  ; 
Whate'er  betides,  Thy  love  abides, 

Our  God,  for  evermore. 

JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK. 


88  THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 


MY   STAR. 

Written  when   an   open  window  at  night  furnished  the  writer 
habitually  her  only  glimpse  of  the  outer  world. 

A  SCRAP  of  sky 
Have  I ; 
Great  wealth  it  is  to  me, 

Such  glorious  things 
Therein  I  see. 

The  morning  star 
Comes  from  afar ; 
For  me  it  shines  so  bright, 
Brings  me  a  heavenly  light, 
Sent  from  my  Lord  above, 
That  I  may  trust  his  love. 

MARY  OSGOOD. 


THE  ANSWER. 

"  A  LLAH,  Allah!"  cried  the  sick  man,  racked  with 

•**•  pain  the  long  night  through ; 

Till  with  prayer  his  heart  grew  tender,  till  his  lips  like 
honey  grew. 

But  at  morning  came  the  Tempter;  said,  "  Call  louder, 

child  of  pain ! 
See  if  Allah  ever  hears,  or  answers,  'Here   am   I,' 

again!" 


THE  ANSWER.  89 

Like  a  stab  the  cruel  cavil  through  his  brain  and 

pulses  went ; 
To  his  heart  an  icy  coldness,  to  his  brain  a  darkness 

sent. 

Then  before  him  stands  Elias ;  says,  "  My  child,  why 

thus  dismayed? 
Dost  repent  thy  former  fervor  ?     Is  thy  soul  of  prayer 

afraid?" 

"  Ah ! "  he  cried,  "  I  Ve  called  so  often ;  never  heard 

the  *  Here  am  I ! ' 
And  I  thought,  God  will  not  pity,  will  not  turn  on  me 

his  eye." 

Then  the  grave  Elias  answered :  "  God  said,  '  Rise, 

Elias;  go, 
Speak  to  him,  the  sorely  tempted ;  lift  him  from  his 

gulf  of  woe. 

" '  Tell  him  that  his  very  longing  is  itself  an  answer- 
ing cry ; 

That  his  prayer,  "Come,  gracious  Allah,"  is  my 
answer,  "Here  am  I."'" 

Every  inmost  aspiration  is  God's  angel  undefiled ; 
And  in  every  "O  my  Father ! "  slumbers  deep  a  "  Here, 
my  child." 

Translation:  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 


9O  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


OUR  FINEST   HOPE. 

HTHE  faith  that  life  on  earth  is  being  shaped 
J-     To  glorious  ends  ;  that  order,  justice,  love, 
Mean  man's  completeness,  mean  effect  as  sure 
As  roundness  in  the  dewdrop,  —  that  great  faith 
Is  but  the  rushing  and  expanding  stream 
Of  thought,  of  feeling,  fed  by  all  the  past. 
Our  finest  hope  is  finest  memory. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 


GLIMPSES. 

AS  one  who  in  the  hush  of  twilight  hears 
The  pausing  pulse  of  Nature,  when  the  Light 
Commingles  in  the  dim,  mysterious  rite 
Of  Darkness  with  the  mutual  pledge  of  tears, 
Till  soft,  anon,  one  timorous  star  appears, 
Pale-budding  as  the  earliest  blossom  white 
That  comes  in  Winter's  livery  bedight, 
To  hide  the  gifts  of  genial  Spring  she  bears,  — 

So  unto  me — what  time  the  mysteries 
Of  consciousness  and  slumber  weave  a  dream, 

And  pause  above  it  with  abated  breath, 
Like  intervals  in  music  —  lights  arise, 
Beyond  prophetic  Nature's  farthest  gleam, 
That  teach  me  half  the  mystery  of  Death. 

JOHN  B.  TABB. 


A  MORNING  THOUGHT.  91 


"I    VEX    ME    NOT    WITH    BROODING    ON 
THE   YEARS." 

I  VEX  me  not  with  brooding  on  the  years 
That  were  ere  I  drew  breath  ;  why  should  I  then 
Distrust  the  darkness  that  may  fall  again 
When  life  is  done  ?     Perchance  in  other  spheres  — 

Dead  planets  —  I  once  tasted  mortal  tears, 
And  walked  as  now  among  a  throng  of  men, 
Pondering  things  that  lay  beyond  my  ken, 
Questioning  death,  and  solacing  my  fears. 

Ofttimes,  indeed,  strange  sense  have  I  of  this,  — 
Vague  memories  that  hold  me  with  a  spell, 
Touches  of  unseen  lips  upon  my  brow, 

Breathing  some  incommunicable  bliss ! 

In  years  foregone,  O  Soul,  was  all  not  well  ? 
Still  lovelier  life  awaits  thee.     Fear  not  thou ! 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

A   MORNING   THOUGHT. 

WHAT  if  some  morning,  when  the  stars  were 
paling, 

And  the  dawn  whitened,  and  the  east  was  clear, 
Strange  peace  and  rest  fell  on  me  from  the  presence 
Of  a  benignant  Spirit  standing  near ; 

And  I  should  tell  him,  as  he  stood  beside  me, 

"  This  is  our  Earth,  —  most  friendly  Earth  and  fair ; 

Daily  its  sea  and  shore  through  sun  and  shadow 
Faithful  it  turns,  robed  in  its  azure  air : 


92  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

"  There  is  blest  living  here,  loving  and  serving, 
And  quest  of  truth,  and  serene  friendships  dear; 

But  stay  not,  Spirit !     Earth  has  one  destroyer,  — 
His  name  is  Death ;  flee,  lest  he  find  thee  here ! " 

And  what  if  then,  while  the  still  morning  brightened, 
And  freshened  in  the  elm  the  Summer's  breath, 

Should  gravely  smile  on  me  the  gentle  angel, 
And  take  my  hand  and  say,  "  My  name  is  Death ! " 
EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 


THE    SOUL'S    WASTE. 

/~"*OULDST  thou  but  keep  each  noble  thought 
^— '    Thou  fling'st  in  words  away, 
With  quiet  then  thy  night  were  fraught, 

With  glory  crowned  thy  day. 
But  thou  too  idly  and  too  long 

From  bower  to  bower  hast  ranged ; 
And  Nature  trifled  with,  not  loved, 

Will  be  at  last  avenged. 

With  pleasure  oft,  but  ne'er  with  awe, 

Thou  gazest  at  the  skies, 
And  from  thy  lips  all  zephyrs  draw 

Their  amplest  harmonies. 
Beware  !  the  hour  is  coming  fast 

When  every  warbled  tone 
That  brims  our  hearts  with  joy  shall  yield 

No  sweetness  to  thine  own. 

AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


THE   UNPARDONABLE  SIN.  93 


DEFEAT. 

I  KNEW  a  captain  girded  by  the  foe 
Who  might,  had  not  his  courage  weakly  failed, 
Have  splendidly  the  hostile  front  assailed, 
And  followed  up  his  vantage  blow  on  blow 
Until  it  reeled  and  broke  and  fled.     But  no ! 
He  still  must  wait  until  his  trumpets  hailed 
A  hireling  troop  to  help  him ;  then  prevailed ; 
And  thought  himself  a  victor  doing  so. 

E'en  such  an  one  is  he  who,  sore  beset, 

Might  conquer  by  his  force  of  heavenly  will; 
But  he,  poor  fool,  must  wait  and  wait  until 

With  him  vile  circumstance  has  basely  met 
To  help  him  through.     Him  let  no  plaudits  greet, 
Self  conquered  with  immeasurable  defeat. 

JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK. 


THE   UNPARDONABLE   SIN. 

IF  I  have  sinned  in  act,  I  may  repent ; 
If  I  have  erred  in  thought,  I  may  disclaim 
My  silent  error,  and  yet  feel  no  shame; 
But  if  my  soul,  big  with  an  ill  intent, 
Guilty  in  will,  by  fate  be  innocent, 
Or  being  bad  yet  murmurs  at  the  curse 
And  incapacity  of  being  worse, 
That  makes  my  hungry  passion  still  keep  Lent 


94  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

In  keen  expectance  of  a  carnival,  — 
Where  in  all  worlds  that  round  the  sun  revolve, 
And  shed  their  influence  on  this  passive  ball, 
Abides  a  power  that  can  my  soul  absolve  ? 
Could  any  sin  survive  and  be  forgiven,  — 
One  sinful  wish  would  make  a  hell  of  heaven. 
HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 


RARE   MOMENTS. 

*T"*HERE  come  rare  moments  when  we  stir 
J-      Some  life-thought  into  living, 
Some  feeling  stumble  on,  as  't  were, 
That  gifts  us  beyond  giving ; 

When  our  dull  eyes  are  opened  wide 

To  life's  surrounding  glory, 
And  our  deaf  ears  no  longer  hide 

Love's  all-abounding  story ; 

The  soul  hath  pulses  swift  and  strong 

To  sweep  this  creeping  being 
Up  in  the  soaring  flight  of  song 

Into  immortal  seeing; 

When  we  behold  ourselves  once  more 
In  spotless  strength  and  beauty, 

See  straight  unto  the  farther  shore 
The  paths  of  truth  and  duty ; 


RARE  MOMENTS.  95 

When  in  the  heart  the  swelling  strength 

And  bounding  hope  of  nature 
Lift  man  above  himself  at  length, 

A  God  in  soul  and  stature ; 


When  what  is  done  we  see,  and  what 
Is  missed,  what  now  remaining, 

And  bend  our  will  to  work,  sink  not 
In  motionless  complaining. 

We  are  again  the  bright-souled  boy, 
With  all  the  world  near  neighbor ; 

We  feel  again  the  long-lost  joy 
Of  loving,  growing  labor. 

Hope,  faith,  and  freedom,  in  one  high, 

Triumphant  song  combining, 
Lay  bare  the  secrets  of  the  sky, 

God's  providence  divining. 

The  clouds  of  doubt  are  torn  apart, 
Gone  fear  with  features  double, 

And,  hushed,  we  beat  in  God's  deep  heart, 
Cleansed,  healed  from  grief  and  trouble. 

How  small  our  crawling  cares,  how  slight 

The  self-made  ills  before  us ! 
They  were  but  noises  of  the  night; 

Light  now  and  life  restore  us. 


96  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT, 

We  are  no  more  earth's  broken  slave ; 

We  reach  above  our  sorrow ; 
Joy  !  joy !  God  gives,  as  once  he  gave, 

Again  a  cloudless  morrow. 

MERLE  ST.  CROIX  WRIGHT. 


SCIENCE. 

DAY  by  day  for  her  darlings 
To  her  much  she  added  more ; 
In  her  hundred-gated  Thebes 
Every  chamber  is  a  door,  — 
A  door  to  something  grander, 
Loftier  walls  and  vaster  floor. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


THE   TIDE  OF   FAITH. 

SO  faith  is  strong 
Only  when  we  are  strong,  shrinks  when  we  shrink. 
It  comes  when  music  stirs  us,  and  the  chords, 
Moving  on  some  grand  climax,  shake  our  souls 
With  influx  new  that  makes  new  energies. 
It  comes  in  swellings  of  the  heart  and  tears 
That  rise  at  noble  and  at  gentle  deeds. 
It  comes  in  moments  of  heroic  love, 
Unjealous  joy  in  joy  not  made  for  us ; 
In  conscious  triumph  of  the  good  within, 
Making  us  worship  goodness  that  rebukes. 


URBS  FORTITUDINIS.  97 

Even  our  failures  are  a  prophecy, 
Even  our  yearnings  and  our  bitter  tears 
After  that  fair  and  true  we  cannot  grasp. 
Presentiment  of  better  things  on  earth 
Sweeps  in  with  every  force  that  stirs  our  souls 
To  admiration,  self-renouncing  love. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 


URBS    FORTITUDINIS. 

OUT  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole, 
I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud; 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  horror  of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds  and  shall  find  me  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 
I  am  the  master  of  my  fate, 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 

WILLIAM  E.  HENLFY. 
7 


98  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


AN   EGYPTIAN   BANQUET. 

A  CROWDED  life,  where  joy  perennial  starts; 
The  boy's  pulse  beating  'mid  experience  sage ; 
Wild  thirst  for  action  time  could  ne'er  assuage ; 
Countless  sad  secrets  learned  from  weary  hearts ; 
New  thresholds  gained  as  each  full  hour  departs ; 
Long  years  read  singly,  each  an  opened  page; 
Love's  blissful  dreams  and  friendship's  priceless 

gage; 

A  name  grown  famous  through  the  streets  and  marts ; 
Knowledge  advancing;    thoughts  that  climb   and 

climb ; 
Aims  that  expand;  new  pinions  that  unfurl ; 

Age  that  outstrips  all  promise  of  its  prime ; 
Hopes  which  their  prayers  at  utmost  heaven  hurl,  — 

Till  in  an  instant,  in  a  point  of  time, 
Death,  the  Egyptian,  melts  and  drinks  the  pearl. 

THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 


THE  PRICELESS  PEARL. 

EATH,  the    Egyptian,   melts  and  drinks  the 

pearl:" 

And  straight  a  rapture  through  his  being  runs, 
A  fire  that  seems  the  essence  of  all  suns 
That  ever  made  the  summer's  pomp  unfurl 
Its  banners,  and  the  green  leaves  softly  curl 


NON  SINE  DO  LORE.  99 

Back  from  the  fruit;  a  sense  of  shining  ones 

Engirdling  round,  until  his  vision  shuns 
The  awful  splendor  of  that  radiant  whorl. 
And  then  a  voice :  These  things  wouldst  thou  explore? 

Who  drinks  the  pearl  of  life  compounded  so 
Of  love,  and  joy,  arid  hope,  and  peace,  and  pain,  — 

All  sweetest,  saddest  things  that  mortals  know,  — 
Drinks  to  his  own  salvation ;  he  shall  gain 
Life  beyond  life,  and  Death  shall  be  no  more. 

JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK. 


WHEN   HALF-GODS   GO. 

THE  gods  man  makes  he  breaks;  proclaims  them 
each 

Immortal,  and  himself  outlives  them  all : 
But  whom  he  set  not  up  he  cannot  reach 
To  shake  His  cloud-dark,  sun-bright  pedestal. 

WILLIAM  WATSON. 


NON   SINE   DOLORE. 

A   SELECTION. 

NO  passing  burden  is  our  earthly  sorrow, 
That  shall  depart  in  some  mysterious  morrow. 
'T  is  his  one  universe  where'er  we  are,  — 
One  changeless  law  from  sun  to  viewless  star. 


100  THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT. 

Were  sorrow  evil  here,  evil  it  were  forever, 

Beyond  the  scope  and  help  of  our  most  keen  endeavor. 

God  doth  not  dote, 
His  everlasting  purpose  shall  not  fail. 
Here  where  our  ears  are  weary  with  the  wail 
And  weeping  of  the  sufferers  ;  there  where  the  Pleiads 

float, — 

Here,  there,  forever,  pain  most  dread  and  dire 
Doth  bring  the  intensest  bliss,  the  dearest  and  most 

sure. 

*T  is  not  from  Life  aside ;  it  doth  endure 
Deep  in  the  secret  heart  of  all  existence ; 
It  is  the  inward  fire, 
The  heavenly  urge  and  the  divine  insistence. 

Uplift  thine  eyes,  O  Questioner,  from  the  sod ! 
It  were  no  longer  Life, 
If  ended  were  the  strife; 
Man  were  not  man,  God  were  not  truly  God. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


EASTER  HYMN. 

AS,  when  the  snow  still  on  the  bough  is  clinging, 
And  winter  will  not  yet  let  go  her  hold, 
Sudden  we  hear  a  bird  returning  singing, 

And  spring  is  come  to  chase  away  the  cold ; 

As,  when  —  the  clouds  beneath  the  sun  disparting  — 
The  million  voices  of  the  sod  arise, 

Into  love's  semblance  and  life's  stature  starting, 
And  lift  their  anthems  to  the  bending  skies,  — 


MOSES. 
From  the  statue  by  Michael  Angela. 


THE  NEW 


So  may  we,  Father,  through  this  time  of  waiting, 
Our  spirits  for  thy  coming  have  prepared, 

That  every  aim  unto  our  life  relating 

Shall  find  fruition  in  thy  will  declared. 

Lift  us  and  light  us  on  our  way,  that,  casting 

Each  burden,  doubt,  and  fear  before  thy  feet, 

We  may  go  on  in  progress  everlasting 

Into  communion  perfect  and  complete. 

And  then,  what  though  the  winter's  pall  be  o'er  us, 
What  though  the  icy  touch  of  death  be  near,  — 

The  gate  of  life  lies  open  there  before  us, 

And  thou,  O  God,  in  all  thy  love  art  here. 

MERLE  ST.  CROIX  WRIGHT. 


THE   NEW   SINAI. 

IS  there  no  prophet-soul  the  while 
To  dare,  sublimely  meek, 
Within  the  shroud  of  blackest  cloud 

The  Deity  to  seek  ? 
'Midst  atheistic  systems  dark, 

And  darker  hearts'  despair, 
That  soul  has  heard  perchance  His  word, 

And  on  the  dusky  air 
His  skirts,  as  passed  He  by,  to  see 

Hath  strained  on  their  behalf, 
Who  on  the  plain,  with  dance  amain, 

Adore  the  Golden  Calf. 


TO  LIGHT. 


T  is  but  the  cloudy  darkness  dense  ; 

Though  blank  the  tale  it  tells, 
No  God,  no  Truth  !  yet  He,  in  sooth, 

Is  there  —  within  it  dwells  : 
Within  the  sceptic  darkness  deep 

He  dwells,  that  none  may  see, 
Till  idol  forms  and  idol  thoughts 

Have  passed  and  ceased  to  be. 
No  God,  no  Truth  !  ah,  though  in  sooth 

So  stand  the  doctrine's  half, 
On  Egypt's  track  return  not  back, 

Nor  own  the  Golden  Calf! 


Take  better  part,  with  manlier  heart, 

Thine  adult  spirit  can; 
No  God,  no  Truth,  —  receive  it  ne'er, 

Believe  it  ne'er,  O  man ! 
But  turn  not  then  to  seek  again 

What  first  the  ill  began. 
No  God,  it  saith ;  ah,  wait  in  faith 

God's  self-completing  plan ! 
Receive  it  not,  but  leave  it  not, 

And  wait  it  out,  O  man ! 


"  The  man  that  went  the  cloud  within 
Is  gone  and  vanished  quite ; 

He  cometh  not,"  the  people  cries, 
"Nor  bringeth  God  to  sight." 

"  Lo,  these  thy  gods,  that  safety  give ; 
Adore,  and  keep  the  feast ! " 


SHARED.  103 

Deluding  and  deluded  cries 

The  prophet's  brother-priest ; 
And  Israel  all  bows  down  to  fall 

Before  the  gilded  beast. 

Devout  indeed !  that  priestly  creed, 

O  man,  reject  as  sin; 
The  clouded  hill  attend  thou  still, 

And  him  that  went  within. 
He  yet  shall  bring  some  worthy  thing 

For  waiting  souls  to  see : 
Some  sacred  word  that  he  hath  heard 

Their  light  and  life  shall  be ; 
Some  lofty  part,  than  which  the  heart 

Adopt  no  nobler  can, 
Thou  shalt  receive,  thou  shalt  believe, 

And  thou  shalt  do,  O  man ! 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 


SHARED. 

T  SAID  it  in  the  meadow  path, 

•*•     I  say  it  on  the  mountain  stairs,  — 

The  best  things  any  mortal  hath 

Are  those  which  every  mortal  shares. 

The  air  we  breathe,  the  sky,  the  breeze, 
The  light  without  us  and  within,  — 

Life,  with  its  unlocked  treasuries, 
God's  riches,  —  are  for  all  to  win. 


104  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

The  grass  is  softer  to  my  tread 
For  rest  it  yields  unnumbered  feet ; 

Sweeter  to  me  the  wild  rose  red 

Because  she  makes  the  whole  world  sweet. 

Into  your  heavenly  loneliness 
Ye  welcomed  me,  Q  solemn  peaks  ! 

And  me  in  every  guest  you  bless 
Who  reverently  your  mystery  seeks. 

And,  up  the  radiant  peopled  way 
That  opens  into  worlds  unknown, 

It  will  be  life's  delight  to  say, 
"  Heaven  is  not  heaven  for  me  alone." 

Rich  through  my  brethren's  poverty, — 
Such  wealth  were  hideous  !     I  am  blest 

Only  in  what  they  share  with  me, 
In  what  I  share  with  all  the  rest. 

LUCY  LARCOM. 


MORALITY. 

WE  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 
The  fire  which  in  the  heart  resides; 
The  spirit  bloweth  and  is  still ; 
In  mystery  our  soul  abides. 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  willed 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfilled. 


OUR  FATHER.  105 

With  aching  hands  and  bleeding  feet 

We  dig  and  heap,  lay  stone  on  stone ; 
We  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 

Of  the  long  day,  and  wish  't  were  done. 
Not  till  the  hours  of  light  return 
All  we  have  built  do  we  discern. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


OUR  FATHER. 

IT  were  a  blessed  faith  to  think 
That  God,  the  great  and  good, 
Had  once  enshrined  himself  in  man, 
And  on  his  fair  earth  stood ; 

Had  visited  his  children  here, 
And  with  a  brother's  voice, 

Hiding  his  father-tone,  had  bid 
The  world  in  him  rejoice; 

Had  taught  us  that  we  need  not  shun, 

With  heart  or  lip,  to  say, 
"  Our  Father  "  to  the  One  unseen 

Who  fills  the  night  and  day ; 

And  that  our  hope  man  does  not  die 

Is  but  the  shadow  far 
Of  faith  too  vast  to  see  direct, 

So  deep  in  it  we  are. 


106  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

A  blessed  faith  !  and  men  by  it 
The  opened  heavens  have  seen, 

And  known  God  is,  who  always  else 
Blind  wanderers  had  been. 


And  yet  if  I  to  win  this  faith 
Must  own  the  common  earth 

Is  bare  of  its  Creator's  form ; 
That  he  who  gave  it  birth 

Did  leave  no  sign  in  me  that  I 
Was  born  of  him,  nor  spoke 

His  words  of  cheer  for  children  now, 
His  silence  no  more  broke,  — 

Then  keep  that  faith,  O  God,  and  give 

To  me,  thy  yearning  one, 
The  other,  greater  bond,  to  be 

Here,  now,  thy  very  son ! 

And  dim  that  little  hope,  but  teach 

The  one  embracing  trust, 
That  what  is  good  God  does,  and  says, 

God's  self  says,  — "This  I  must." 

And  then  I  want  no  other  sign ; 

Reveal  thyself  no  more ; 
That  human  semblance  orphans  me, 

Seen,  but  so  long  before. 


"  MY    CHILD    IS    LYING   ON    MY    KNEE." 
From  the  painting,  "  Mother's  Joy''  by  Oscar  Begas. 


HYMN  FOR   THE  MOTHER.  107 

And  if  to  me  to  live  seem  good, 

Thy  goodness  conquers  mine; 
Or  should  not  life,  but  death,  await, 

My  choice  I  glad  resign, 


Sure  still  that  there  is  higher  good, 

That  life  is  not  my  gain, 
That  what  I  think  is  happiness 

Thou  knowest  would  be  pain. 

WILLIAM  C.  GANNETT. 


HYMN   FOR  THE   MOTHER. 

MY  child  is  lying  on  my  knees ; 
The  signs  of  heaven  she  reads ; 
My  face  is  all  the  heaven  she  sees, 
Is  all  the  heaven  she  needs. 


And  she  is  well,  yea,  bathed  in  bliss, 

If  heaven  is  in  my  face ; 
Behind  it  is  all  tenderness 

And  truthfulness  and  grace. 

I  mean  her  well  so  earnestly, 
Unchanged  in  changing  mood, 

My  life  would  go  without  a  sigh 
To  bring  her  something  good. 


108  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

I  also  am  a  child,  and  I 

Am  ignorant  and  weak ; 
I  gaze  upon  the  starry  sky, 

And  then  I  must  not  speak ; 

For  all  behind  the  starry  sky, 
Behind  the  world  so  broad, 

Behind  men's  hearts  and  souls  doth  lie 
The  infinite  of  God. 

If  true  to  her,  though  troubled  sore, 

I  cannot  choose  but  be, 
Thou,  who  art  peace  forevermore, 

Art  very  true  to  me. 

If  I  am  low  and  sinful,  bring 
More  love  where  need  is  rife ; 

Thou  knowest  what  an  awful  thing 
It  is  to  be  a  life. 

Hast  thou  not  wisdom  to  enwrap 

My  waywardness  about, 
In  doubting  safety  on  the  lap 

Of  Love  that  knows  no  doubt? 

Lo !  Lord,  I  sit  in  thy  wide  space, 

My  child  upon  my  knee ; 
She  looketh  up  unto  my  face, 

And  I  look  up  to  thee. 

GEORGE  MACDONALD. 


NO   UNBELIEF.  1 09 


AT   ANCHOR. 

HOW  calm  upon  the  twilight  water  sleeps, 
With  folded  wings,  yon  solitary  sail, 
Safe-harbored,  haply  dreaming  of  the  gale 
That  wolf-like  o'er  the  waste  deserted  leaps  ! 
One  star  —  a  signal  light  above  her  —  keeps 
Watch ;  and,  behold,  its  pictured  image  pale 
Gleams  far  below,  a  seeming  anchor  frail, 
Where  onward  still  the  noiseless  current  sweeps ! 

Star  of  my  life,  pale  planet,  far  removed, 

Oh,  be  thou,  when  the  twilight  deepens,  near ! 

Set  in  my  soul  thine  image  undisproved 

By  death  and  darkness,  till  the  morning  clear 

Behold  me  in  the  presence  I  have  loved, 
My  beacon  here,  my  bliss  eternal  there  ! 

JOHN  B.  TABB. 


NO   UNBELIEF. 

THERE  is  no  unbelief; 
Whoever  plants  a  leaf  beneath  the  sod, 
And  waits  to  see  it  push  away  the  clod, 
Trusts  he  in  God. 

Whoever  says,  when  clouds  are  in  the  sky, 
"  Be  patient,  heart !  light  breaketh  by  and  by,' 
Trusts  the  Most  High. 


HO  THROUGH  LOVE    TO  LIGHT, 

Whoever  sees  'neath  winter's  field  of  snow 
The  silent  harvest  of  the  future  grow, 
God's  power  must  know. 

Whoever  lies  down  on  his  couch  to  sleep, 
Content  to  lock  each  sense  in  slumber  deep, 
Knows  God  will  keep. 

Whoever  says,  "  To-morrow,"  "  The  unknown," 
"  The  future,"  trusts  that  Power  alone 
He  dares  disown. 

The  heart  that  looks  on  when  the  eyelids  close, 
And  dares  to  live  when  life  has  only  woes, 
God's  comfort  knows. 

There  is  no  unbelief; 

And  day  by  day,  and  night,  unconsciously, 
The  heart  lives  by  that  faith  the  lips  deny ; 

God  knoweth  why. 

LIZZIE  YORK  CASE. 


THE   MARCHING   MORROWS. 

NOW  gird  thee  well  for  courage, 
My  knight  of  twenty  year, 
Against  the  marching  morrows, 
That  fill  the  world  with  fear. 

The  flowers  fade  before  them ; 
The  summer  leaves  the  hill ; 
Their  trumpets  range  the  morning, 
And  those  who  hear  grow  still. 


THE  MARCHING  MORROWS.  Ill 

Like  pillagers  of  harvest, 
Their  fame  is  far  abroad, 
As  gray,  remorseless  troopers, 
That  plunder  and  maraud. 

The  dust  is  on  their  corselets ; 
Their  marching  fills  the  world; 
With  conquest  after  conquest 
Their  banners  are  unfurled. 

They  overthrow  the  battles 
Of  every  lord  of  war, 
From  world-dominioned  cities 
Wipe  out  the  names  they  bore. 

Sohrab,  Rameses,  Roland, 
Ramoth,  Napoleon,  Tyre, 
And  the  Romeward  Huns  of  Attila, — 
Alas,  for  their  desire ! 

By  April  and  by  autumn 
They  perish  in  their  pride, 
And  still  they  close  and  gather 
Out  of  the  mountain-side. 

The  tanned  and  tameless  children 
Of  the  wild  elder  earth, 
With  stature  of  the  northlights, 
They  have  the  stars  for  girth. 


112  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

There  's  not  a  hand  to  stay  them 
Of  all  the  hearts  that  brave, 
No  captain  to  undo  them, 
No  cunning  to  off -stave. 

Yet  fear  thou  not !    If  haply 
Thou  be  the  kingly  one, 
They  '11  set  thee  in  their  vanguard 
To  lead  them  round  the  sun. 

BLISS  CARMAN. 


WELL  SATISFIED. 
From  «  The  Sick  Stock-Rider." 

I'VE  had  my  share  of  pastime,  and  I  Ve  done  my 
share  of  toil ; 

And  life  is  short,  —  the  longest  life  a  span. 
I  care  not  now  to  tarry  for  the  corn  or  for  the  oil, 

Or  for  the  wine  that  maketh  glad  the  heart  of  man. 
For  good  undone  and  gifts  misspent  and  resolutions 

vain, 

*T  is  somewhat  late  to  trouble.     This  I  know,  — 
I  should  live  the  same  life  over,  if  I  had  to  live  again ; 
And  the  chances  are  I  go  where  most  men  go. 

The  deep  blue  skies  wax  dusky,  and  the  tall  green 

trees  grow  dim; 
The  sward  beneath  me  seems  to  heave  and  fall ; 

And  sickly,  smoky  shadows  through  the  sleepy  sun- 
light swim, 


THE    TOUCHSTONE.  113 

And  on  the  very  sun's  face  weave  their  pall. 
Let  me  slumber  in  the  hollow  where  the  wattle-blossoms 

wave, 

With  never  stone  or  rail  to  fence  my  bed. 
Should  the  sturdy  station-children    pull    the    bush- 
flowers  on  my  grave, 
I  may  chance  to  hear  them  romping  overhead. 

A.  LINDSAY  GORDON. 


THE   TOUCHSTONE. 

A  MAN  there  came,  whence  none  can  tell, 
Bearing  a  touchstone  in  his  hand, 
And  tested  all  things  in  the  land 
By  its  unerring  spell. 

A  thousand  transformations  rose 
From  fair  to  foul,  from  foul  to  fair; 
The  golden  crown  he  did  not  spare, 
Nor  scorn  the  beggar's  clothes. 

Of  heirloom  jewels,  prized  so  much, 
Were  many  changed  to  chips  and  clods ; 
And  even  statues  of  the  gods 
Crumbled  beneath  its  touch. 

Then  angrily  the  people  cried  : 
"  The  loss  outweighs  the  profit  far. 
Our  goods  suffice  us  as  they  are; 
We  will  not  have  them  tried." 
8 


114  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

And,  since  they  could  not  so  avail 
To  check  his  unrelenting  quest, 
They  seized  him,  saying,  "  Let  him  test 
How  real  is  our  jail." 

But  though  they  slew  him  with  the  sword, 
And  in  a  fire  his  touchstone  burned, 
Its  doings  could  not  be  o'erturned, 
Its  undoings  restored. 

And  when,  to  stop  all  future  harm, 
They  strewed  its  ashes  on  the  breeze, 
They  little  guessed  each  grain  of  these 
Conveyed  the  perfect  charm. 

WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 


DEEP   UNTO   DEEP. 

DEEP  calleth  unto  deep  I 
Tossed  on  a  stormy  sea, 
I  heard  a  strong  voice  calling  out, 

"  What  drift  is  bearing  me  ? 
Is  it  to  haven?  out  to  main ? 
To  rest,  to  toil?  to  loss,  to  gain?" 

Across  the  doubtful  tide 
Rang  out  the  answer  grand : 

"  I  see  a  blue  sky  overhead, 
Although  I  see  no  land ; 

So  breast  the  surges,  bear  the  doubt, 

And  search  the  blue  sky's  meaning  out. 


COURAGE.  115 

Serene  and  still  and  strong, 

Though  good  or  ill  betide, 
Bends  the  great  mystery  of  hope, 

Love's  prophet,  reason's  guide. 
What  must  it  mean  ?     It  wraps  us  round, 
And  saves  us,  though  the  tempests  sound. 

Safe  on  this  higher  sea 

We  trust  life's  dearest  freight ; 
Immortal  tides  of  deathless  thought 

Sweep  onward  while  we  wait ; 
And  love's  strong  voices,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Shout  promise  of  another  shore. 

MRS.  W.  J.  POTTER. 


COURAGE. 

BECAUSE  I  hold  it  sinful  to  despond, 
And  will  not  let  the  bitterness  of  life 
Blind  me  with  burning  tears,  but  look  beyond 
Its  tumult  and  its  strife ; 

Because  I  lift  my  head  above  the  mist, 

Where  the  sun  shines  and  the  broad  breezes  blow, 
By  every  ray  and  every  raindrop  kissed 

That  God's  love  doth  bestow,  — 

Think  you  I  find  no  bitterness  at  all, 

No  burden  to  be  borne  like  Christian's  pack? 

Think  you  there  are  no  ready  tears  to  fall 
Because  I  keep  them  back  ? 


Il6  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Why  should  I  hug  life's  ills  with  cold  reserve 
To  curse  myself  and  all  who  love  me  ?    Nay, 

A  thousand  times  more  good  than  I  deserve 
God  gives  me  every  day. 

And  in  each  one  of  these  rebellious  tears, 
Kept  bravely  back,  he  makes  a  rainbow  shine. 

Grateful,  I  take  his  slightest  gift;  no  fears, 
Nor  any  doubts  are  mine. 

Dark  skies  must  clear ;  and  when  the  clouds  are  past, 
One  golden  day  redeems  the  weary  year. 

Patient,  I  listen,  sure  that  sweet  at  last 
Will  sound  his  voice  of  cheer. 

Then  vex  me  not  with  chiding.    Let  me  be. 

I  must  be  glad  and  grateful  to  the  end. 
I  grudge  you  not  your  cold  and  darkness,  —  me 

The  powers  of  light  befriend. 

CELIA  THAXTER. 


OUT  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

But  thou  and  I  are  one  in  kind, 
As  moulded  like  in  Nature's  mint ; 
And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did  print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 

"  In  Mcmoriam." 

THERE  was  a  stream,  low-voiced  and  shy ; 
So  narrow  was  the  lazy  tide, 
The  reeds  that  grew  on  either  side 
Crossed  their  green  swords  against  the  sky. 


OUT  OF  CHILDHOOD.  117 

And  in  the  stream  a  shallow  boat, 

With  prow  thrust  deep  among  the  reeds, 
And  broad  stern  wound  with  water-weeds, 

Lay  half  aground  and  half  afloat. 

And  in  the  boat,  hand  clasping  hand, 
Two  children  sat  as  in  a  dream, 
Their,  eyes  upon  the  lapsing  stream, 

Their  faces  turned  away  from  land. 

They  cared  not  for  a  little  rift 

That  came  between  them  and  the  shore, 
And  softly  widened  more  and  more 

Till  on  the  stream  they  lay  adrift. 

They  murmured  absently  and  low 
That  presently  they  must  return 
To  their  sweet  store  of  gathered  fern 

And  tinted  pebbles  ranged  in  row. 

Through  limpid  pools  they  drifted  slow ; 
They  looked  before  and  not  behind, 
And  fancied  still  they  heard  the  wind 

That  through  the  weeds  went  whispering  low. 

The  lengthening  ripples  wore  a  crest, 
The  white  foam  grew  beneath  the  stern, 
And,  murmuring  still,  "  We  will  return," 

The  river  bore  them  on  its  breast. 

They  hailed  the  homeward-flitting  bee, 
They  smelled  the  rose  upon  the  shore, 
The  current  widened  more  and  more, 

The  river  bore  them  to  the  sea. 


Il8  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Now  over  ocean  caves  impearled 
Unheedingly  they  drift  and  drift, 
And  know  not  that  the  little  rift 

Has  widened  into  half  the  world. 

And  like  the  pearls  in  ocean  caves 
The  vision  of  their  lost  delight 
Is  whelmed  and  flooded  out  of  sight 

By  thoughts  on  thoughts,  like  waves  on  waves. 

And  would  they  — what  they  never  will, 
And  could  they  — what  they  never  can, 
Turn  back  through  space  as  't  were  a  span, 

And  stand  again  beside  the  rill, 

Its  shallow  rhythm,  as  it  glides 
Through  tangled  sedge  and  feathery  ferns, 
Would  vex  the  wakening  sense  that  learns 

The  chant  of  winds,  the  sweep  of  tides. 

Yet  sometimes,  when  the  wind  is  low, 
And  sunken  treasure  of  the  caves 
Shines  faintly  upward  through  the  waves, 

The  old  thought  rises  even  so. 

And  while  they  watch,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  circling  drift  of  ocean-weeds, 
They  babble  still  of  those  green  reeds 

That  crossed  their  swords  above  the  stream. 

HELEN  THAYER  HUTCHESON. 


"  I    SIT    BENEATH    THE    ELM'S    PROTECTING   SHADOW.' 
From  a  painting  by  C.  von  Bodenhausen, 


PROTECTING  SHADOWS.  119 


PROTECTING  SHADOWS. 

I  SIT  beneath  the  elm's  protecting  shadow, 
Whose  graceful  form 

Shelters  from  sunshine  warm  ; 
While  far  around  me,  in  the  heated  meadow, 

The  busy  insects  swarm. 

Better  than  any  roof,  these  softly  swaying  leaves, 
Opening  and  closing  to  the  passing  air, 
Which  from  afar  the  fragrant  breath  receives 

Of  forest  odors  rare. 

And,  as  the  branches  sway, 
Revealing  depths  on  depths  of  heavenly  blue, 
The  tempered  rays  of  sunshine,  glancing  through 
In  flickering  spots  of  light,  around  me  play ; 
While  little  birds  dart  through  the  mazy  web, 

With  happy  chirp  and  song, 

Fearing  no  wrong, 

To  their  half-hidden  nests  above  my  head. 
Thus,  without  motion,  without  speech  or  sound, 
I  rest,  a  part  of  all  this  life  around. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Great  Protection 

The  soul  sits,  hushed  and  calm. 
Bathed  in  the  peace  of  that  divine  affection, 
No  fever-heats  of  life  or  dull  dejection 

Can  work  the  spirit  harm. 

Diviner  heavens  above 

Look  down  on  it  in  love. 


i 
120  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

And,  as  the  varying  winds  move  where  they  will, 
In  whispers  soft,  through  trackless  fields  of  air, 
So  comes  the  Spirit's  breath,  serene  and  still, 
Its  tender  messages  of  love  to  bear 
From  men  of  every  race  and  speech  and  zone, 

Making  the  whole  world  one, 
Till  every  sword  shall  to  a  sickle  bend, 
And  the  long,  weary  strifes  of  earth  shall  end. 

Be  happy,  then,  my  heart, 

That  thou  in  all  hast  part,  — 
In  all  these  outward  gifts  of  time  and  sense; 
In  all  the  spirit's  nobler  influence; 

In  sun  and  snow  and  storm ; 
In  the  vast  life  which  flows  through  sea  and  sky, 
Through  every  changing  form 
Whose  beauty  soon  must  die ; 
In  the  things  seen,  which  ever  pass  away; 
In  things  unseen,  which  shall  forever  stay; 

In  the  Eternal  Love 

That  lifts  the  soul  above 
All  earthly  passion,  grief,  remorse,  and  care, 

Which  lower  life  must  bear. 

Be  happy  now  and  ever, 

Since  from  the  Love  divine  no  power  the  soul  shall 
sever: 

For  not  our  feeble  nor  our  stormy  past, 

Nor  shadows  from  the  future  backward  cast ; 
Not  all  the  gulfs  of  evil  far  below, 
Nor  mountain-peaks  of  good  which  soar  on  high 

Into  the  unstained  sky, 


* 

A  LONGING.  121 

Nor  any  power  the  universe  can  know ; 
Not  the  vast  laws  to  whose  control  is  given 
The  blades  of  grass  just  springing  from  the  sod, 
And  stars  within  the  unsounded  depths  of  heaven, 
Can  touch  the  spirit  hid  with  Christ  in  God  : 
For  nought  that  he  has  made,  below,  above, 
Can  part  us  from  his  love. 

JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 


A   LONGING. 

NOT  in  lands  with  a  speech  not  my  own, 
Where  the  sights  that  are  newest  look  lone, 
But  where  all  most  familiar  had  grown 
To  my  eyes  and  the  throbs  of  my  breast,  — 
Shall  I  die  in  my  nest  ? 

They  will  say,  It  is  one  to  the  wise 
From  what  country  the  freed  spirit  flies, 
For  the  way  is  the  same  to  the  skies : 
Truths  to  faith  and  to  reason  addressed,— 
But  alas !  for  the  nest. 

Oh,  methinks  it  would  glad  the  last  gaze 
To  be  circled  with  friends  of  old  days, 
And  the  spots  that  are  gilt  with  the  rays 
That  stream  from  the  sun  of  the  west 
O'er  the  down  of  my  nest ! 

Translation :  N.  L.  FROTHINGHAM. 


122  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


FREEDOM   OF  THE   MIND. 

HIGH  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine, 
And  iron  grates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze, 
And  massive  bolts  may  baffle  his  design, 
And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways ; 
Yet  scorns  the  immortal  mind  this  base  control ! 
No  chains  can  bind  it,  and  no  cell  enclose. 
Swifter  than  light,  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes ! 
It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount;  from  vale  to  vale 
It  wanders,  plucking  honeyed  fruits  and  flowers; 
It  visits  home,  to  hear  the  fireside  tale, 
Or  in  sweet  converse  pass  the  joyous  hours. 
'T  is  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar, 
And  in  its  watches  wearies  every  star  I 

WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON 


IMMORTALITY. 

PILED  by  our  fellow-men,  depressed,  outworn, 
We  leave  the  brutal  world  to  take  its  way ; 
And,  Patience  !  in  another  life,  we  say, 
The  world  shall  be  thrust  down,  and  we  upborne. 

And  will  not,  then,  the  immortal  armies  scorn 
The  world's  poor  routed  leavings  ?  or  will  they, 
Who  failed  under  the  heat  of  this  life's  day, 
Support  the  fervors  of  the  heavenly  morn  ? 


IRRE  VOCABLE.  \  2  3 

No,  no !  the  energy  of  life  may  be 
Kept  on  after  the  grave,  but  not  begun ; 
And  he  who  flagged  not  in  the  earthly  strife, 

From  strength  to  strength  advancing,  —  only  he, 
His  soul  well  knit,  and  all  his  battles  won, 
Mounts,  and  that  hardly,  to  eternal  life. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


IRREVOCABLE. 

"II  7IJAT  thou  hast  done  thou  hast  done;  for  the 

»  »  heavenly  horses  are  swift. 

Think  not  their  flight  to  o'ertake,  —  they  stand  at  the 

throne  even  now. 
Ere  thou  canst  compass  the  thought,  the  immortals  in 

just  hands  shall  lift, 
Poise,  and  weigh  surely  thy  deed,  and  its  weight  shall 

be  laid  on  thy  brow ; 
For  what  thou  hast  done  thou  hast  done. 

What  thou  hast  not  done  remains ;   and  the  heavenly 

horses  are  kind. 
Till  thou  hast  pondered  thy  choice,  they  will  patiently 

wait  at  thy  door. 
Do  a  brave  deed,  and  behold !  they  are  farther  away 

than  the  wind. 
Returning,  they  bring  thee  a  crown,  to  shine  on  thy 

brow  evermore ; 
For  what  thou  hast  done  thou  hast  done. 

MARY  WRIGHT  PLUMMER. 


124  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


HIDE   NOT  THY   HEART. 

THIS  is  my  creed, 
This  be  my  deed, — 
"Hide  not  thy  heart!" 
Soon  we  depart ; 
Mortals  are  all ; 
A  breath,  then  the  pall; 
A  flash  on  the  dark  — 
All 's  done  —  stiff  and  stark. 
No  time  for  a  lie ; 
The  truth,  and  then  die. 
Hide  not  thy  heart ! 

Forth  with  thy  thought  1 
Soon  't  will  be  nought, 
And  thou  in  thy  tomb. 
Now  is  air,  now  is  room. 
Down  with  false  shame ; 
Reck  not  of  fame ; 
Dread  not  man's  spite; 
Quench  not  thy  light 
This  be  thy  creed, 
This  be  thy  deed,  — 
"Hide  not  thy  heart!" 

If  God  is,  he  made 
Sunshine  and  shade, 
Heaven  and  hell ; 
This  we  know  well. 
Dost  thou  believe? 


FROM  THE  ETERNAL  SHADOW.        125 

Do  not  deceive ; 
Scorn  not  thy  faith,  — 
If  't  is  a  wraith, 
Soon  it  will  fly. 
Thou,  who  must  die, 
Hide  not  thy  heart ! 

This  is  my  creed, 
This  be  my  deed: 
Faith  or  a  doubt, 
I  shall  speak  out, 
And  hide  not  my  heart. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


FROM   THE   ETERNAL  SHADOW. 

Tj*ROM  the  eternal  shadow,  rounding 
•*•       All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 
Voices  of  our  loved  ones  sounding 

Bid  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 
Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces, 

Falling  on  the  inward  ear. 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 
Which  have  fallen  on  our  way ; 

Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 
Bravely,  cheerly,  while  we  may, 

Ere  the  long  night-silence  cometh, 
And  with  us  it  is  not  day. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


126  THROUGH  LOl'E   TO  LIGHT. 


LOVE  AND   DEATH. 

WHEN  the  end  comes,  and  we  must  say  good-by, 
And  I  am  going  to  the  quiet  land ; 
And,  sitting  in  some  loved  place  hand  in  hand, 
For  the  last  time  together,  you  and  I, 
We  watch  the  winds  blow,  and  the  sunlight  lie 
Soft  by  the  washing  of  the  western  foam, 
Above  the  spaces  of  our  garden  home, 
Where  we  have  lived  and  loved  in  days  passed  by,  — 
We  must  not  weep,  my  darling,  or  upbraid 
The  quiet  death  who  comes  to  part  us  twain, 
But  know  that  parting  would  not  be  such  pain 
Had  not  our  love  a  perfect  flower  been  made. 
And  we  shall  find  it  in  God's  garden  laid 
On  that  sweet  day  wherein  we  meet  again. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  RIDDLE   OF  THE  SPHINX. 


O 


LIFE,  I  hold  thee  face  to  face; 
Nor  move  I  back  one  single  pace 
For  accident  of  time  or  space. 

For  time  and  space  to  me  belong, 
Nor  know  they  how  to  work  me  wrong. 
I  wait;  for  I,  not  thou,  am  strong. 

Day  after  day  may  slow  go  by ; 
After  the  worst  that  thou  canst  try, 
At  last,  at  last,  thou  shalt  reply! 


NATURA  NATURANS.  1 27 

No  haste,  —  Eternity  is  now ; 

No  rest,  —  I  will  not  let  thee  go ; 

What  thou  hast  asked,  that  answer  thou  I 

ANNA  C.  BRACKETT. 


THE   INDWELLING   GOD. 

HE  is  the  green  in  every  blade, 
The  health  in  every  boy  and  maid  j 
In  yonder  sunrise  flag  he  blooms 
Above  a  nation's  well-earned  tombs ; 
That  empty  sleeve  his  arm  contains , 
That  blushing  scar  his  life-blood  drains; 
That  flaunting  cheek  against  the  lamp 
He  hoists  for  succor  from  a  heart 
Where  love  maintains  its  wasted  camp 
Till  love  arrive  to  take  its  part ; 
That  bloodless  cheek  against  the  pane 
Goes  whitening  all  the  murky  street 
With  God's  own  dread,  lest  hunger  gain 
Upon  his  love's  woe-burdened  feet. 

JOHN  WEISS, 


NATURA   NATURANS. 

NATURE  is  made  better  by  no  mean 
But  nature  makes  that  mean :  even  that  art 
Which  you  say  adds  to  nature  is  an  art 

That  nature  makes. 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 


128  THROUGH  LOVE  TO  LIGHT. 


COSMIC  EMOTION. 

THY  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air; 
I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run ; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 
And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou,  then  ?  I  cannot  guess ; 
But  though  I  seem  in  sun  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh ; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice; 

I  prosper,  circled  by  thy  voice ; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee,  though  I  die. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


THE   BLINDING   LIGHT. 

MYSTERIOUS    Night!    when  our  first   parent 
knew 

Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 
Yet,  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus,  with  the  host  of  heaven,  came, 
And  lo !  Creation  widened  in  man's  view. 


THE  COMING  MAN.  129 

Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun !  or  who  could  find, 

Whilst  fly  and  leaf  and  insect  stood  revealed, 

That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind  ? 

Why  do  we  then  shun  death  with  anxious  strife  ? 

If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  Life  ? 

JOSEPH  BLANCO  WHITE. 


THROUGH   GREAT  TRIBULATION. 

THERE  must  be  refuge !     Men 
Perished  in  winter  winds  till  one  smote  fire 
From  flint-stones  coldly  hiding  what  they  held,  — 
The  red  spark  treasured  from  the  kindling  sun ; 
They  gorged  on  flesh  like  wolves  till  one  sowed  corn, 
Which  grew  a  weed,  yet  makes  the  life  of  man ; 
They  mowed  and  babbled  till  some  tongue  struck 

speech, 

And  patient  fingers  framed  the  lettered  sound. 
What  good  gift  have  my  brothers,  but  it  came 
From  search  and  strife  and  loving  sacrifice  ? 

EDWIN  ARNOLD. 


THE   COMING   MAN. 

MAN'S  self  is  not  yet  man. 
Nor  shall  I  deem  his  object  served,  his  end 
Attained,  his  genuine  strength  put  fairly  forth, 
While  only  here  and  there  a  star  dispels 
9 


130  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

The  darkness,  here  and  there  a  towering  mind 
O'erlooks  its  prostrate  fellows.    When  the  host 
Is  out  at  once,  to  the  despair  of  night; 
When  all  mankind  alike  is  perfected, 
Equal  in  full-blown  powers,  —  then,  not  till  then, 
I  say,  begins  man's  general  infancy. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


EVENING. 

A  THOUGHTFUL  life  is  a  pleasant  life, 
Yea,  dreams  in  a  wild-brier  lane ; 
The  air  soft  kindling,  with  the  moon 
Midway  of  her  stately  reign, 

Where  the  broad  light  lies  wavelessly, 

Where  the  toiling  sun  has  lain, 
A  tree  and  its  shadow,  wondrous  still, 

Ruling  the  grassy  plain. 

The  river  to  the  distant  sea, 

Murmuring,  murmuring,  goes, 
Type  of  a  life  that  broods  and  sings 

On  to  its  quiet  close. 

Thanks,  that  along  the  shifting  sands, 

As  moves  our  sleepless  tent, 
Moments  of  higher  calm  are  given, 

And  of  more  true  content ! 


«  <  •  • 
•  •c 
•  c 


THE  KINGS.  131 

Content,  —  the  world  falls  off,  and  leaves 

A  measure  nobler  grained, 
By  which  I  try  the  seeming  lost, 

As  well  as  seeming  gained. 

Dear  heart,  whose  pulses  with  my  own 

Keep  their  mysterious  move, 
That  fillest  every  transient  pause 

With  music  of  thy  love, 

Art  not  thou  patient  too  to-night, 

Divining  what  true  strength, 
What  life  is  ours,  what  joy  to  come, 

And  far-off  calm  at  length  ? 

ANNE  WHITNEY. 


THE   KINGS. 

A  MAN  said  unto  his  angel: 
My  spirits  are  fallen  thro', 
And  I  cannot  carry  this  battle. 
O  brother !  what  shall  I  do  ? 

The  terrible  kings  are  on  me, 
With  spears  that  are  deadly  bright ; 
Against  me  so  from  the  cradle 
Do  fate  and  my  fathers  fight. 

Then  said  to  the  man  his  angel : 
Thou  wavering,  foolish  soul, 
Back  to  the  ranks !     What  matter, 
To  win  or  to  lose  the  whole, 


132  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

As  judged  by  the  little  judges 
Who  hearken  not  well,  nor  see? 
Not  thus,  by  the  outer  issue, 
The  wise  shall  interpret  thee. 

Thy  will  is  the  very,  the  only, 
The  solemn  event  of  things ; 
The  weakest  of  hearts  defying 
Is  stronger  than  all  these  kings. 

Tho'  out  of  the  past  they  gather, 
Mind's  Doubt  and  Bodily  Pain, 
And  pallid  Thirst  of  the  Spirit, 
That  is  kin  to  the  other  twain, 

And  Grief,  in  a  cloud  of  banners, 
And  ringleted  Vain  Desires, 
And  Vice,  with  the  spoils  upon  him 
Of  thee  and  thy  beaten  sires, 

While  kings  of  eternal  evil 
Yet  darken  the  hills  about,  — 
Thy  part  is,  with  broken  sabre, 
To  rise  on  the  last  redoubt ; 

To  fear  not  sensible  failure, 
Nor  covet  the  game  at  all, 
But  fighting,  fighting,  fighting, 
Die,  driven  against  the  wall ! 

LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY, 


A 


SADNESS  AND   GLADNESS.  133 

IN  HOC   SIGNO. 

ND  if  his  church  be  doubtful,  it  is  sure 

That  in  a  world,  made  for  whatever  else, 
Not  made  for  mere  enjoyment;  in  a  world 
Of  toil  but  half  requited,  or,  at  best, 
Paid  in  some  futile  currency  of  breath ; 
A  world  of  incompleteness,  sorrow  swift, 
And  consolation  laggard,  —  whatsoe'er 
The  form  of  building  or  the  creed  professed, 
The  cross,  bold  type  of  shame  to  homage  turned, 
Of  an  unfinished  life  that  sways  the  world, 
Shall  tower  as  sovereign  emblem  over  all. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


SADNESS   AND   GLADNESS. 

THERE  was  a  glory  in  my  house, 
And  it  is  fled ; 

There  was  a  baby  at  my  heart, 
And  it  is  dead. 

And  when  I  sit  and  think  of  him, 

I  am  so  sad 
That  half  it  seems  that  never  more 

Can  I  be  glad. 

If  you  had  known  this  baby  mine, 

He  was  so  sweet, 
You  would  have  gone  a  journey  just 

To  kiss  his  feet. 


134  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT 

He  could  not  walk  a  single  step, 

Nor  speak  a  word ; 
But  then  he  was  as  blithe  and  gav 

As  any  bird 

That  ever  sat  on  orchard  bough 

And  trilled  its  song 
Until  the  listener  fancied  it 

As  sweet  and  strong 

As  if  from  lips  of  angels  he 
Had  heard  it  flow,— 

Such  angels  as  thy  hand  could  paint, 
Angelico ! 

You  cannot  think  how  many  things 

He  learned  to  know 
Before  the  swift,  swift  angel  came, 

And  bade  him  go ; 

So  that  my  neighbors  said  of  him, 

He  was  so  wise 
That  he  was  never  meant  for  earth, 

But  for  the  skies. 

But  I  would  not  believe  a  word 

Of  what  they  said ; 
Nor  will  I,  even  now,  although 

My  boy  is  dead. 

For  God  would  be  most  wicked,  ML 

When  all  the  earth 
Is  in  the  travail  of  a  new 

And  heavenly  birth, 


SADNESS  AND   GLADNESS.  135 

As  often  as  a  little  Christ  is  found 

With  human  breath, 
He,  like  another  Herod,  should  resolve 

Upon  its  death. 

But  should  you  ask  me  how  it  is 

That  yours  can  stay, 
Though  mine  must  spread  his  little  wing* 

And  fly  away, 

I  could  but  say  that  God,  who  made 

This  heart  of  mine, 
Must  have  intended  that  its  love 

Should  be  the  sign 

Of  his  own  love;  and  that  if  he 

Can  think  it  right 
To  turn  my  joy  to  sorrow,  and 

My  day  to  night, 

I  cannot  doubt  that  he  will  turn, 

In  other  ways, 
My  winter  darkness  to  the  light 

Of  summer  days. 

I  know  that  God  gives  nothing  to 

Us  for  a  day ; 
That  what  he  gives  he  never  cares 

To  take  away ; 

And  when  he  comes  and  seems  to  make 

Our  glory  less, 
It  is  that,  by  and  by,  we  may 

The  more  confess 


136  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

That  he  has  made  it  brighter  than 

It  was  before, — 
A  glory  shining  on  and  on 

Forevermore. 

And  when  I  sit  and  think  of  this, 

I  am  so  glad 
That  half  it  seems  that  never  more 

Can  I  be  sad. 

JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK. 


THE  BABY  OVER  THE  WAY. 

HTHERE  is  the  window  over  the  way 
A      That  was  lit  with  a  baby's  face  by  day ; 

But  the  shutters  are  closed,  and  at  the  door 
The  doctor's  gig  for  an  hour  has  stood, 

And  they  tell  us  —  the  little  gossips  four, 
Who  bring  us  the  news  of  the  neighborhood  — 

That  the  doctor  is  coming  every  day 

To  see  the  baby  over  the  way. 

When  midnight  hushes  the  city's  noise, 
We  hear  the  sound  of  a  feeble  voice, 

And  know  that  the  room  where  the  light  burns  low 
Holds  hearts  that  watch  for  the  morning  light. 

What  the  day  shall  bring,  if  they  could  but  know, 
They  would  cling  to  the  lingering  hours  of  night ; 

For  hearts  will  break  with  the  breaking  day, 

When  the  long  watch  closes  over  the  way. 


MY  OWN. 


137 


The  baby  over  the  way  is  dead, 

And  the  mourners  will  not  be  comforted. 

O  desolate  ones,  no  stranger's  voice 
May  break  your  silence,  for  words  are  cheap  ! 

Your  griefs  we  tell  by  our  tenderest  joys  : 
Our  four  little  gossips  are  warm  asleep. 

Would  it  lighten  your  burden  if  you  knew 

That  here,  in  the  dark,  we  were  crying  with  you  ? 
*  G.  WASHINGTON  GLADDEN. 


MY  OWN. 

BROWN  heads  and  gold  around  my  knee 
Dispute  in  eager  play; 
Sweet  childish  voices  in  my  ear 

Are  sounding  all  the  day ; 
Yet  sometimes  in  a  sudden  hush 

I  seem  to  hear  a  tone 
Such  as  my  little  boy's  had  been, 
If  I  had  kept  my  own. 

And  ofttimes  when  they  come  to  me, 

As  evening  hours  grow  long, 
And  beg  me  winningly  to  give 

A  story  or  a  song, 
I  see  a  pair  of  star-bright  eyes 

Among  the  others  shine,  — 
The  eyes  of  him  who  ne'er  hath  heard 

Story  or  song  of  mine. 


138  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

At  night  I  go  my  round,  and  pause 

Each  white-draped  cot  beside, 
And  note  how  flushed  is  this  one's  cheek, 

How  that  one's  curls  lie  wide ; 
And  to  a  corner  tenantless 

My  swift  thoughts  go  apace, 
That  would  have  been,  if  he  had  lived, 

My  other  darling's  place. 

The  years  go  fast ;  my  children  soon 

Within  the  world  of  men 
Will  find  their  work,  and  venture  forth, 

Not  to  return  again. 
But  there  is  one  who  cannot  go,  — 

I  shall  not  be  alone : 
The  little  one  who  did  not  live 

Will  always  be  my  own. 

MARY  WRIGHT  PLUMMER. 


WILL  IT  BE  THUS? 

HOW  oft,  escaping  from  some  troubled  dream, 
With  stifled  sob  and  eyelids  strangely  wet, 
We  hail  with  joy  the  morn's  assuring  gleam, 
And  smile,  and  quite  forget ! 

Will  it  be  thus  when,  waking  after  death, 
The  horror  fades  that  we  had  known  erewhile  ? 

When  all  life's  struggle  ends  in  one  glad  breath, 
Shall  we  forget,  and  smile  ? 

EMMA  HUNTINGTON  NASON. 


JOY  COMETH  WITH  THE  MORNING.     139 


UP-HILL. 

TAOES  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ? 
••— '     Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day  ? 
From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place  ? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow,  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face  ? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night  ? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock  or  call  when  just  in  sight  ? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak  ? 

Of  labor  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek  ? 

Yes,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI. 


JOY   COMETH    WITH   THE   MORNING. 

OUT  of  the  dreams  and  the  dust  of  ages, 
Hindu  reverie,  Hebrew  boy, 
Deeds  of  heroes,  and  lore  of  sages, 
Comes  the  hope  that  turns  earth  to  joy. 


140  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

But  the  rosy  light  of  the  morning  teaches 
A  blither  knowledge  than  books  can  tell, 

And  the  song  that  runs  through  the  orchard  preaches 
The  ceaseless  message  that  all  is  well. 

Hark  to  the  lesson  that  Nature  meaneth  ! 

List  to  the  breeze  on  the  pine-clad  hill  1 
See,  the  sun-rays  stream  to  the  zenith ! 

Thrice  the  oriole  whistles  shrill. 

Myriad  odors  are  faint  and  tender, 
Sweet  notes  come  from  the  woodlands  far ; 

Draw  fresh  life  from  the  day's  new  splendor, 
Pluck  thy  hope  from  the  morning  star. 

THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 


ANTICIPATION. 

HOW  doth  Death  speak  of  our  beloved, 
When  it  has  laid  them  low,  — 
When  it  has  set  its  hallowing  touch 
On  speechless  lips  and  brow  ? 

It  clothes  their  every  gift  and  grace 
With  radiance  from  the  holiest  place, 
With  light  as  from  an  angel's  face. 

It  sweeps  their  faults  with  heavy  hand, 
As  sweeps  the  sea  the  trampled  sand, 
Till  scarce  the  faintest  print  is  scanned. 


CARPE  DIEM.  141 

It  takes  each  failing  on  our  part, 
And  brands  it  in  upon  the  heart 
With  caustic  power  and  cruel  art. 

Thus  doth  Death  speak  of  our  beloved, 

When  it  has  laid  them  low ; 
Then  let  Love  antedate  Death's  work, 

And  do  this  now. 

MRS.  CHARLES. 


CARPE   DIEM. 

HOW  the  dull  thought  smites  me  dumb,  — 
"  It  will  come !  "  and  "  It  will  come ! " 
But  to-day  I  am  not  dead  ; 
Life  in  hand  and  foot  and  head 
Leads  me  on  its  wondrous  ways. 
JT  is  in  such  poor,  common  days, 
Made  of  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
Golden  truth  has  leaped  to  light, 
Potent  messages  have  sped, 
Torches  flashed  with  running  rays, 
World-runes  started  on  their  flight. 

Let  it  come,  when  come  it  must ; 
But  To-Day  from  out  the  dust 
Blooms  and  brightens  like  a  flower, 
Fair  with  love,  and  faith,  and  power. 
Pluck  it  with  unclouded  will, 
From  the  great  tree  Igdrasil. 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 


142  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


THE  TWOFOLD  AWE. 

Two  things  fill  my  mind  with  awe,  —  the  heavens  above  me,  and 
the  moral  law  within.  —  IMMANUEL  KANT. 

"  HT WO  things,"  said  he  of  Kdnigsberg, 

J-      Most  gravely  wise  of  modern  men, 
"  With  awe  my  spirit  fill  whene'er 

They  break  upon  my  ken : 
The  starry  heavens,  when  they  show 

Their  countless  hosts  in  order  bright ; 
The  Law  within,  which  teaches  me 

The  way  of  Truth  and  Right." 

How  poor  the  man  who  cannot  say 

Amen  to  words  so  sweet  and  strong, 
Whose  heart  has  never  known  the  beat 

Of  either  mystic  song ! 
Has  never  felt  abashed  and  stilled 

By  starry  splendors,  cool  and  far ; 
Nor,  when  the  inward  silence  thrilled, 

How  weak  and  strong  we  are  1 

But,  oh  that  each  might  win  the  grace 

To  hold  the  twofold  awe  as  one, 
To  blend  the  inward  voice  with  that 

Which  speaks  in  star  and  sun ; 
From  shining  orbs  that  never  swerve 

Upon  their  high  and  glorious  way, 
The  strength  attain  whereby  he  might 

That  law  within  obey  1 


LIFE. 


143 


Then  would  our  lives  as  bravely  shine 

As  ever  pomp  of  clearest  night ; 
For  suns  and  moons  and  stars  are  pale 

To  Love  and  Truth  and  Right. 
And  then  on  who  in  darkness  sit 

Should  gladsome  light  arise  and  shine; 
And  in  our  glory  men  should  walk, 

And  conquer  by  our  sign. 

JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK. 


LIFE. 

OLIFE  !  that  mystery  that  no  man  knows, 
And  all  men  ask :  the  Arab  from  his  sands ; 
The  Caesar's  self,  lifting  imperial  hands ; 
And  the  lone  dweller  where  the  lotus  blows. 
O'er  trackless  tropics,  and  o'er  silent  snows, 
She  dumbly  broods,  that  Sphinx  of  all  the  lands; 
And  if  she  answers,  no  man  understands, 
And  no  cry  breaks  the  blank  of  her  repose. 
But  a  new  form  rose  once  upon  my  pain, 
With  grave,  sad  lips,  but  in  the  eyes  a  smile 
Of  deepest  meaning  dawning  sweet  and  slow, 
Lighting  to  service  ;  and  no  more  in  vain 
I  ask  of  Life,  "  What  art  thou  ?  "  as  erewhile, 
For  since  Love  holds  my  hand,  I  seem  to  know. 

LIZZIE  M.  LITTLE. 


144  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


HE   GIVETH   SNOW. 

PIN  ushered  in  the  sullen  day. 
"Oh,  cold,  gray  day,"  I  said, 
"  I  only  asked  one  little  ray 
Of  hope,  and  hope  is  dead ! " 

Like  some  great  brooding  bird  above, 
The  sky  let  fall  its  feathery  down. 

"  Take  the  dark  earth,"  she  said,  "  my  love ! 
Weave  Nature's  bridal  gown ! " 

I  opened  wide  the  snowy  door; 

The  soft  flakes  fluttered  round  my  head. 
"Beauty,  at  least,  lives  evermore." 

I  turned,  but  pain  had  fled. 

MARY  THACHER  HIGGINSON. 


LOVE'S   NOBILITY. 

PR  this  is  Love's  nobility: 
Not  to  scatter  bread  and  gold, 
Goods  and  raiment,  bought  and  sold; 
But  to  hold  fast  our  simple  sense, 
And  speak  the  speech  of  innocence, 
And  with  hand  and  body  and  blood 
To  make  our  bosom  counsel  good. 
For  he  that  feeds  men  serveth  few  ; 
He  serves  all  who  dares  be  true. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


DULCE  ET  DECORUM.  145 


DULCE  ET   DECORUM. 

A/TANY  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's  best  oil 
*yi     Amid  the  dust  of  books  to  find  her, 
Content  at  last  for  guerdon  of  their  toil 

With  the  cast  mantle  she  hath  left  behind  her ; 

Many  in  sad  faith  sought  for  her ; 

Many  with  crossed  hands  sighed  for  her ; 
But  these  our  brothers  fought  for  her, 
At  life's  dear  peril  wrought  for  her, 
So  loved  her  that  they  died  for  her, 

Tasting  the  raptured  fleetness 

Of  her  divine  completeness: 
Their  higher  instinct  knew 
Those  love  her  best  who  to  themselves  are  true, 
And  what  they  dare  to  dream  of  dare  to  do. 

They  followed  her,  and  found  her 
Where  all  may  hope  to  find,  — 
Not  in  the  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  mind, 
But  beautiful,  with  danger's  sweetness  round  her, 

Where  faith  made  whole  with  deed 
Breathes  its  awakening  breath 

Into  the  lifeless  creed; 

They  saw  her  plumed  and  mailed, 

With  sweet,  stern  face  unveiled, 
And  all-repaying  eyes  look  proud  on  them  in  death. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 
10 


I 

146  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

THE  GOOD   MOMENTS. 

OH,  we  're  sunk  enough  here,  God  knows  I 
But  not  quite  so  sunk  that  moments, 
Sure,  though  seldom,  are  denied  us, 

When  the  spirit's  true  endowments 
Stand  out  plainly  from  its  false  ones, 

And  apprise  it  if  pursuing 

Or  the  right  way  or  the  wrong  way, 

To  its  triumph  or  undoing. 

There  are  flashes  struck  from  midnights, 

There  are  Are-flames  noondays  kindle, 
Whereby  piled-up  honors  .perish, 

Whereby  swol'n  ambitions  dwindle; 
While  just  this  or  that  poor  impulse, 

Which  for  once  had  play  unstifled, 
Seems  the  sole  work  of  a  lifetime 

That  away  the  rest  have  trifled. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


THE  PROMISE  OF  SPRING. 

OD  does  not  send  us  strange  flowers  every  year. 
When  the  spring  winds  blow  o'er  the  pleasant 

places, 

The  same  dear  things  lift  up  the  same  fair  faces ; 
The  violet  is  here. 


THE  SECRET.  147 

It  all  comes  back,  the  odor,  grace,  and  hue, 
Each  sweet  relation  of  its  life  repeated ; 
Nothing  is  lost ;  no  looking-for  is  cheated ; 
It  is  the  thing  we  knew. 

So  after  the  death-winter  it  will  be : 
God  will  not  put  strange  sights  in  heavenly  places ; 
The  old  love  will  look  out  from  the  old  faces ; 
VIOLET,  I  shall  have  thee. 

A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 


THE   SECRET. 

SHE  passes  hi  her  beauty  bright 
Amongst  the  mean,  amongst  the  gay, 
And  all  are  brighter  for  the  sight, 
And  bless  her  as  she  goes  her  way. 

And  now  a  gleam  of  pity  pours, 
And  now  a  spark  of  spirit  flies, 

Uncounted,  from  the  unlocked  stores 
Of  her  rich  lips  and  precious  eyes. 

And  all  men  look,  and  all  men  smile, 
But  no  man  looks  on  her  as  I ; 

They  mark  her  for  a  little  while, 
But  I  will  watch  her  till  I  die. 

And  if  I  wonder  now  and  then 

Why  this  so  strange  a  thing  should  be, 

That  she  be  seen  by  wiser  men, 
And  only  duly  loved  by  me, 


148  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

I  only  wait  a  little  longer, 

And  watch  her  radiance  in  the  room, 
Here  making  light  a  little  stronger, 

And  there  obliterating  gloom 

(Like  one  who  in  a  tangled  way 
Watches  the  broken  sun  fall  through, 

Turning  to  gold  the  faded  spray, 
And  making  diamonds  of  dew), 

Until  at  last,  as  my  heart  burns, 
She  gathers  all  her  scattered  light, 

And  undivided  radiance  turns 
Upon  me  like  a  sea  of  light ; 

And  then  I  know  they  see  in  part 
That  which  God  lets  me  worship  whole: 

He  gives  them  glances  of  her  heart, 
But  me  the  sunshine  of  her  soul. 

COSMO  MONKHOUSE. 


THE    BETTER    TIME. 

OBERMANN  LOQUITUR. 

DESPAIR  not  thou  as  I  despaired, 
Nor  be  cold  gloom  thy  prison ! 
Forward  the  gracious  hours  have  fared, 
And,  see !  the  sun  is  risen. 


WELL  PAID 

He  melts  the  icebergs  of  the  past; 

A  green,  new  earth  appears ; 
Millions,  whose  life  in  ice  lay  fast, 

Have  thoughts  and  smiles  and  tears. 


The  world's  great  order  dawns  in  sheen, 

After  long  darkness  rude, 
Divinelier  imaged,  clearer  seen, 

With  happier  goal  pursued. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


WELL  PAID. 

HEAR  how  the  brooding  cushat  mourns 
Her  love.    We  will  not  mourn  or  weep, 
Or  lock  ourselves  in  wintry  sleep, 
But  bide  in  peace  Heaven's  large  returns. 
All  that  he  has  and  is,  who  gives, 
With  whom  no  earth-born  wish  survives 
To  hoard  his  little  grief  or  bliss, 
God  his  great  debtor  surely  is, 
And  pays  infinity.     Who  meet 
The  coming  fate  half-way,  and  fling 
Their  blessed  treasures  at  her  feet, 
Shall  feel  through  all  her  clamoring, 
Her  hard  eye  quail ;  she  knows  't  were  vain 
To  empty  what  God  brims  again. 

ANNE  WHITNEY. 


149 


150  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


ABRAHAM  DAVENPORT. 

IN  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 
With  breeches  and  cocked  hats)  the  people  sent 
Their  wisest  men  to  make  the  public  laws. 
And  so,  from  a  brown  homestead  where  the  Sound 
Drinks  the  small  tribute  of  the  Mi  an  as, 
Waved  over  by  the  woods  of  Rippowams, 
And  hallowed  by  pure  lives  and  tranquil  deaths, 
Stamford  sent  up  to  the  councils  of  the  State 
Wisdom  and  grace  in  Abraham  Davenport 

T  was  on  a  May  day  of  the  far  old  year 
Seventeen  hundred  eighty  that  there  fell 
Over  the  bloom  and  sweet  life  of  the  spring, 
Over  the  fresh  earth  and  the  heaven  of  noon, 
A  horror  of  great  darkness,  like  the  night 
In  day  of  which  the  Norland  sagas  tell, — 
The  Twilight  of  the  Gods.    The  low-hung  sky 
Was  black  with  ominous  clouds,  save  where  its  rim 
Was  fringed  with  a  dull  glow,  like  that  which  climbs 
The  crater's  sides  from  the  red  hell  below. 
Birds  ceased  to  sing,  and  all  the  barnyard  fowls 
Roosted ;  the  cattle  at  the  pasture  bars 
Lowed  and  looked  homeward ;  bats  on  leathern  wings 
Flitted  abroad ;  the  sounds  of  labor  died ; 
Men  prayed,  and  women  wept ;  all  ears  grew  sharp 
To  hear  the  doom-blast  of  the  trumpet  shatter 


ABRAHAM  DA  VENPOR T.  151 

The  black  sky,  that  the  dreadful  face  of  Christ 
Might  look  from  the  rent  clouds,  not  as  he  looked 
A  loving  guest  at  Bethany,  but  stern 
As  Justice  and  inexorable  Law. 

Meanwhile  in  the  old  State  House,  dim  as  ghosts, 
Sat  the  lawgivers  of  Connecticut, 
Trembling  beneath  their  legislative  robes. 
"  It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Day !     Let  us  adjourn," 
Some  said ;  and  then,  as  if  with  one  accord, 
All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Davenport. 
He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady  voice 
The  intolerable  hush :  "  This  well  may  be 
The  Day  of  Judgment  which  the  world  awaits; 
But  be  it  so  or  not,  I  only  know 
My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  command 
To  occupy  till  he  come.     So  at  the  post 
Where  he  hath  set  me  in  his  providence 
I  choose,  for  one,  to  meet  him  face  to  face,  — 
No  faithless  servant  frightened  from  my  task, 
But  ready  when  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  calls; 
And  therefore,  with  all  reverence  I  would  say, 
Let  God  do  his  work,  we  will  see  to  ours. 
Bring  in  the  candles."     And  they  brought  them  in. 

Then  by  the  flaring  lights  the  Speaker  read, 
Albeit  with  husky  voice  and  shaking  hands, 
An  act  to  amend  an  act  to  regulate 
The  shad  and  alewive  fisheries.     Whereupon 
Wisely  and  well  spake  Abraham  Davenport, 
Straight  to  the  question,  with  no  figures  of  speech 


152  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Save  the  ten  Arab  signs,  yet  not  without 
The  shrewd,  dry  humor  natural  to  the  man, 
His  awe-struck  colleagues  listening  all  the  while, 
Between  the  pauses  of  his  argument, 
To  hear  the  thunder  of  the  wrath  of  God 
Break  from  the  hollow  trumpet  of  the  cloud. 

And  there  he  stands  in  memory  to  this  day, 
Erect,  self-poised,  a  rugged  face  half  seen 
Against  the  background  of  unnatural  dark, 
A  witness  to  the  ages  as  they  pass 
That  simple  duty  hath  no  place  for  fear. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


YOUNG  WINDEBANK. 

THEY  shot  young  Windebank  just  here, 
By  Merton,  where  the  sun 
Strikes  on  the  wall.    T  was  in  a  year 
Of  blood  the  deed  was  done. 

At  morning  from  the  meadows  dim 
He  watched  them  dig  his  grave. 

Was  this  in  truth  the  end  for  him, 
The  well-beloved  and  brave  ? 

He  marched  with  soldier  scarf  and  sword, 

Set  free  to  die  that  day, 
And  free  to  speak  once  more  the  word 

That  marshalled  men  obey. 


PROSPICE.  153 

But  silent  on  the  silent  band 

That  faced  him,  stern  as  death, 
He  looked,  and  on  the  summer  land, 

And  on  the  grave  beneath. 

Then  with  a  sudden  smile  and  proud 

He  waved  his  plume,  and  cried, 
"  The  king !  the  king !  "  and  laughed  aloud, 

"The  king!  the  king!  "  and  died. 

Let  none  affirm  he  vainly  fell, 

And  paid  the  barren  cost 
Of  having  loved  and  served  too  well 

A  poor  cause  and  a  lost. 

He  in  the  soul's  eternal  cause 

Went  forth  as  martyrs  must,  — 
The  kings  who  make  the  spirit  laws, 

And  rule  us  from  the  dust ; 

Whose  wills,  unshaken  by  the  breath 

Of  adverse  Fate,  endure 
To  give  us  honor  strong  as  death, 

And  loyal  love  as  sure. 

HERBERT  P.  HORNE. 


PROSPICE. 

FEAR  death  ?  —  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 
The  mist  in  my  face, 

When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 
I  am  nearing  the  place, 


154  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go  • 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though  a  battle  's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so  —  one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last ! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past 
No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness,  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute 's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend  voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace,  then  a  joy, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !     I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


WITH  WHOM  IS  NO  VARIABLENESS.      155 


AN   ANGEL   IN   THE   HOUSE. 

HOW  sweet  it  were  if,  without  feeble  fright, 
Or  dying  of  the  dreadful,  beauteous  sight, 
An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 
At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 
His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his  bowers 
News  of  dear  friends,  and  children  who  have  never 
Been  dead  indeed,  —  as  we  shall  know  forever ! 
Alas  !  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About  our  hearths,  angels  that  are  to  be, 
Or  may  be  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy  air,  — 
A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife,  whose  soft  heart  sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future  wings. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


WITH  WHOM   IS   NO  VARIABLENESS. 

IT  fortifies  my  soul  to  know 
That,  though  I  perish,  Truth  is  so ; 
That,  howsoe'er  I  stray  and  range, 
Whate'er  I  do,  Thou  dost  not  change. 
I  steadier  step  when  I  recall 
That,  if  I  slip,  Thou  dost  not  fall. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 


156  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


LIFE   IN  OURSELVES. 

DEAR  artists,  ye 
—  Whether  in  forms  of  curve  or  hue 
Or  tone  your  gospels  be  — 
Say  wrong,  This  work  is  not  ofme, 
But  God.    It  is  not  true;  it  is  not  true. 

Awful  is  Art,  because  't  is  free. 
The  artist  trembles  o'er  his  plan, 

Where  men  his  Self  must  see. 
Who  made  a  song  or  picture,  he 
Did  it,  and  not  another,  God  nor  man. 

My  Lord  is  large,  my  Lord  is  strong : 
Giving,  he  gave ;  my  Me  is  mine. 

How  poor,  how  strange,  how  wrong, 
To  dream  he  wrote  the  little  song 
I  made  to  him  with  love's  unforced  design ! 

Pass,  kinsman  cloud,  now  fair  and  mild ; 
Discharge  the  will  that 's  not  thine  own. 

I  work  in  freedom  wild, 
Buf  work,  as  plays  a  little  child, 
Sure  of  the  Father,  Self,  and  Love,  alone. 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 


INTEGER    VITAE. 


INTEGER  VITAE. 

r~pHE  man  of  life  upright, 
•*•      Whose  guiltless  heart  is  free 
From  all  dishonest  deeds, 
Or  thoughts  of  vanity ; 

The  man  whose  silent  days 
In  harmless  joys  are  spent, 

Whom  hopes  cannot  delude, 
Nor  sorrows  discontent,  — 

That  man  needs  neither  towers 

Nor  armor  for  defence, 
Nor  secret  vaults  to  fly 

From  thunder's  violence. 

He  only  can  behold 

With  unaff righted  eyes 
The  horrors  of  the  deep 

And  terrors  of  the  skies. 

Thus,  scorning  all  the  cares 
That  fate  or  fortune  brings, 

He  makes  the  heaven  his  book, 
His  wisdom  heavenly  things, 

Good  thoughts  his  only  friends, 
His  wealth  a  well-spent  age, 

The  earth  his  sober  inn 
And  quiet  pilgrimage. 

LORD  BACON  (?). 


157 


158  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


THE   FIRE   OF   LIFE. 

I  STROVE  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife; 
Nature  I  loved,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art; 
I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life ; 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANOOK. 


NO  COWARD  SOUL. 

NO  coward  soul  is  mine, 
No   trembler   in    the   world's    storm-troubled 

sphere ; 

I  see  heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  faith  shines  equal,  arming  me  from  fear. 

O  God  within  my  breast, 
Almighty,  ever-present  Deity ! 

Life  that  in  me  has  rest, 
As  I,  undying  Life,  have  power  in  thee  1 

Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 
That  move  men's  hearts,  unutterably  vain ; 

Worthless  as  withered  weeds, 
Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless  main, 

To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  thine  infinity, 

So  surely  anchored  on 
The  steadfast  rock  of  immortality. 


THE  DIVINE  IMAGE.  159 

With  wide-embracing  love 
The  Spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above, 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,  creates,  and  rears. 

Though  earth  and  man  were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  ceased  to  be, 

And  thou  wert  left  alone, 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  thee. 

There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could  render  void : 

Thou  —  thou  art  Being  and  Breath, 
And  what  thou  art  may  never  be  destroyed. 

EMILY  BRONTE. 


THE   DIVINE   IMAGE. 

TO  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 
All  pray  in  their  distress, 
And  to  these  virtues  of  delight 
Return  their  thankfulness. 

For  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 
Is  God,  our  Father  dear; 

And  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 
Is  man,  His  child  and  care. 

For  Mercy  has  a  human  heart; 

Pity,  a  human  face ; 
And  Love,  the  human  form  divine ; 

And  Peace,  the  human  dress. 


l6o  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Then  every  man,  of  every  clime, 

That  prays  in  his  distress, 
Prays  to  the  human  form  divine,— 

Love,  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace. 

And  alltoiust  love  the  human  form, 

In  heathen,  Turk,  or  Jew ; 
Where  mercy,  love,  and  pity  dwell, 

There  God  is  dwelling  too. 

WILLIAM  BLAKE. 


MY  PRAYER. 

GREAT  God,  I  ask  thee  for  no  meaner  pelf 
Than  that  I  may  not  disappoint  myself; 
That  in  my  action  I  may  soar  as  high 
As  I  can  now  discern  with  this  clear  eye ; 

And  next  in  value  that  thy  kindness  lends, 
That  I  may  greatly  disappoint  my  friends,  — 
Howe'er  they  think  or  hope  that  it  may  be, 
They  may  not  dream  how  thou  'st  distinguished  me ; 

That  my  weak  hand  may  equal  my  firm  faith, 
And  my  life  practise  more  than  my  tongue  saith ; 
That  my  low  conduct  may  not  show, 

Nor  my  relenting  lines, 
That  I  thy  purpose  did  not  know, 

Or  overrated  thy  designs. 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


THE  STIRRUP-CUP.  l6l 

SOLEMN   BEFORE   US. 
Translated  from  Goethe. 

SOLEMN  before  us 
Looms  the  dark  portal, 
Goal  of  all  mortal ; 
Stars  silent  rest  over  us ; 
Graves  under  us  —  silent. 

But  heard  are  the  voices, 
Heard  are  the  sages, 
The  worlds  and  the  ages : 
Choose  well ;  your  choice  is 
Brief  and  yet  endless. 

Here  eyes  do  regard  you 
In  Eternity's  stillness ; 
Here  is  all  fulness, 
Ye  brave,  to  reward  you : 
Work,  and  despair  not. 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


THE   STIRRUP-CUP. 

DEATH,  thou  'rt  a  cordial  old  and  rare ; 
Look  how  compounded,  with  what  care! 
Time  got  his  wrinkles  reaping  thee 
Sweet  herbs  from  all  antiquity. 
II 


1 62  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT 

David  to  thy  distillage  went, 
Keats  and  Gotama  excellent, 
Omar  Khayya*m,  and  Chaucer  bright, 
And  Shakspere  for  a  king-delight. 

Then,  Time,  let  not  a  drop  be  spilt : 
Hand  me  the  cup  whene'er  thou  wilt 
'T  is  thy  rich  stirrup-cup  to  me ; 
I  '11  drink  it  down  right  smilingly. 

SIDNEY  LAMER. 


HOPE   EVERMORE  AND    BELIEVE. 
From  "Amours  de  Voyage" 

HOPE  evermore  and  believe,  O  man;  for  e'en  as 
thy  thought, 
So  are  the  things  that  thou  seest,  e'en  as  thy  hope 

and  belief. 
Cowardly  art  thou,  and  timid  ?    They  rise  to  provoke 

thee  against  them. 

Hast  thou  courage?    Enough !  —  see  them  exulting 
to  yield. 

Go  from  the  east  to  the  west,  as  the  sun  and  the  stars 

direct  thee ; 
Go  with  the  girdle  of  man,  go  and  encompass  the 

earth. 
Not  for  the  gain  of  the  gold,  for  the  getting,  the 

hoarding,  the  having ; 
But  for  the  joy  of  the  deed,  but  for  the  Duty  to  do. 


"  HOPE    EVERMORE." 
From  the  painting,  "  Hope"  by  C.  voti  &>(bjmqu 


.TWO   THOUGHTS.  163 

Go  with  the   spiritual  life,  the  higher  volition   and 

action ; 

With  the  great  girdle  of  God  go  and  encompass  the 
earth. 

Go  with  the  sun  and  the  stars,  and  yet  evermore  in  thy 

spirit 

Say  to  thyself :  It  is  good;  yet  is  there  better  than  it. 

This  that  I  see  is  not  all,  and  this  that  I  do  is  but  little ; 

Nevertheless  it  is  good,  though  there  is  better  than  it. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 


TWO   THOUGHTS. 

WHEN  I  reflect  how  small  a  place  I  fill 
In  this  great,  teeming  world  of  laborers, 
How  little  I  can  do  with  strongest  will, 
How  marred  that  little  by  most  hateful  blurs,  — 
The  fancy  overwhelms  me,  and  deters 
My  soul  from  putting  forth  so  poor  a  skill : 
Let  me  be  counted  with  those  worshippers 
Who  lie  before  God's  altar  and  are  still. 
But  then  I  think  (for  healthier  moments  come), 
This  power  of  will,  this  natural  force  of  hand,  — 
What  do  they  mean,  if  working  be  not  wise  ? 
Forbear  to  weigh  thy  words,  O  Soul !     Arise, 
And  join  thee  to  that  nobler,  sturdier  band 
Whose  worship  is  not  idle,  fruitless,  dumb. 

EDWARD  CRACROFT  LEFROY. 


1 64  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


THE   SERVICE  OF  BEAUTY. 

LARGESS  from  sevenfold  heavens,  I  pray,  descend 
On  all  who  toil  for  Beauty !    Never  feet 
Grow  wear}'  that  have  done  her  bidding  sweet 
About  the  careless  world.     For  she  is  friend 
And  darling  of  the  universe ;  and  day  by  day 
She  comes  and  goes,  but  never  dies, 
So  precious  is  she  in  the  eternal  eyes. 
Oh,  dost  thou  scorn  her,  seeing  what  fine  way 
She  doth  avenge  ?    For  heaven  because  of  her 
Shall  one  day  find  thee  fitter.     How  old  hours 
Of  star-rapt  night  about  thy  heart  had  curled, 
And  thou  hadst  felt  the  morning's  golden  stir, 
And  the  appealing  loveliness  of  flowers,  — 
Yea,  all  the  saving  beauty  of  the  world ! 

ANNE  WHITNEY. 


REMEMBER. 

REMEMBER  me  when  I  am  gone  away, 
Gone  far  away  into  the  silent  land, 
When  you  can  no  more  hold  me  by  the  hand, 
Nor  I  half  turn  to  go,  yet,  turning,  stay. 
Remember  me  when  no  more,  day  by  day, 
You  tell  me  of  our  future  that  you  planned. 
Only  remember  me ;  you  understand 
It  will  be  late  to  counsel  then,  or  pray. 


AH,   YET  CONSIDER  IT  AGAIN!        165 

Yet,  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a  while 
And  afterwards  remember,  do  not  grieve: 
For  if  the  darkness  and  corruption  leave 
A  vestige  of  the  thoughts  that  once  I  had, 
Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and  smile, 
Than  that  you  should  remember  and  be  sad. 

CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI. 


THE   GOLDEN   STRING. 

I   GIVE  you  the  end  of  a  golden  string: 
Only  wind  it  into  a  ball, 
It  will  lead  you  in  at  Heaven's  gate. 
Built  in  Jerusalem's  wall. 

WILLIAM  BLAKE. 


OPTIMISM. 

WELL,  and  how  good  is  life ! 
Good  to  be  born,  have  breath, 
The  calms  good,  and  the  strife, 
Good  life,  and  perfect  death. 

EDWARD  DOWDEN. 


AH,  YET   CONSIDER   IT  AGAIN! 

OLD  things  need  not  be  therefore  true, 
O  brother  men,  nor  yet  the  new. 
Ah,  still  a  while  the  old  thought  retain, 
And  yet  consider  it  again  1 


166  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

The  souls  of  now  two  thousand  years 
Have  laid  up  here  their  toils  and  fears, 
And  all  the  earnings  of  their  paiu,  — 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again ! 

We !  what  do  we  see?    Each  a  space 
Of  some  few  yards  before  his  face. 
Does  that  the  whole  wide  plan  explain? 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again  ! 

Alas !  the  great  world  goes  its  way, 
And  takes  the  truth  from  each  new  day; 
They  do  not  quit,  nor  can  retain, 
Far  less  consider  it  again. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 


HIS   BANNER   OVER  ME. 

SURROUNDED  by  unnumbered  foes, 
Against  my  soul  the  battle  goes ; 
Yet,  though  I  weary,  sore  distrest, 
I  know  that  I  shall  reach  my  rest 
I  lift  my  tearful  eyes  above ; 
His  banner  over  me  is  love. 

Its  sword  my  spirit  will  not  yield, 
Though  flesh  may  faint  upon  the  field ; 
He  waves  before  my  fading  sight 
The  branch  of  palm,  the  crown  of  light. 

I  lift  my  brightening  eyes  above ; 

His  banner  over  me  is  love. 


ON,   ON,  FOREVER!  l6j 

My  cloud  of  battle-dust  may  dim, 
His  veil  of  splendor  curtain  Him, 
And  in  the  midnight  of  my  fear 
I  may  not  feel  Him  standing  near; 

But,  as  I  lift  mine  eyes  above, 

His  banner  over  me  is  love. 

GERALD  MASSEY. 


ON,   ON,   FOREVER! 

BENEATH  this  starry  arch 
Nought  resteth  or  is  still; 
But  all  things  hold  their  march, 

As  if  by  one  great  will. 
Moves  one,  move  all,  —  hark  to  the  footfall ! 
On,  on,  forever ! 

Yon  sheaves  were  once  but  seed ; 
Will  ripens  into  deed; 
As  cave-drops  swell  the  streams, 
Day-thoughts  feed  nightly  dreams; 
And  sorrow  tracketh  wrong, 
As  echo  follows  song,  — 
On,  on,  forever ! 

By  night,  like  stars  on  high, 

The  Hours  reveal  their  train ; 
They  whisper  and  go  by : 

I  never  watch  in  vain. 

Moves  one,  move  all,  —  hark  to  the  footfall ! 
On,  on,  forever ! 


1  68  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

They  pass  the  cradle-head, 
And  there  a  promise  shed  ; 
They  pass  the  moist  new  grave, 
And  bid  rank  verdure  wave  ; 
They  bear  through  every  clime 
The  harvests  of  all  time. 
On,  on,  forever  ! 

HARRIET  MARTINEAU. 


POTTER'S   CLAY. 

T^HOUGH  the  pitcher  that  goes  to  the  sparkling  rill 
A      Too  often  gets  broken  at  last, 
There  are  scores  of  others  its  place  to  fill 

When  its  earth  to  the  earth  is  cast. 
Keep  that  pitcher  at  home,  let  it  never  roam, 

But  lie  like  a  useless  clod, 
Yet  sooner  or  later  the  hour  will  come 

When  its  chips  are  thrown  to  the  sod. 

Is  it  wise,  then,  say,  in  the  waning  day, 

When  the  vessel  is  cracked  and  old, 
To  cherish  the  battered  potter's  clay 

As  though  it  were  virgin  gold  ? 
Take  care  of  yourself,  dull,  boorish  elf,  — 

Though  prudent  and  safe  you  seem, 
Your  pitcher  will  break  on  the  musty  shelf, 

And  mine  by  the  dazzling  stream. 

A.  LINDSAY  GORDON. 


THE  HIDDEN  LIFE.  169 

THE   CRICKET. 

YES,  the  world  is  big,  but  I  '11  do  my  best, 
Since  I  happen  to  find  myself  in  it, 
And  I  '11  sing  my  loudest  out  with  the  rest, 
Though  I  'm  neither  a  lark  nor  a  linnet, 
And  strive  towards  the  goal  with  as  tireless  zest, 
Though  I  know  I  may  never  win  it. 

For  shall  no  bird  sing  but  the  nightingale  ? 
No  flower  bloom  but  the  rose  ? 
Shall  lesser  stars  quench  their  torches  pale 
When  Mars  through  the  midnight  glows? 
Shall  only  the  highest  and  greatest  prevail? 
May  nothing  seem  white  but  the  snows  ? 

Nay,  the  world  is  so  big  that  it  needs  us  all 

To  make  audible  music  in  it. 

God  fits  a  melody  e'en  to  the  small ; 

We  have  nothing  to  do  but  begin  it. 

So  I  '11  chirp  my  merriest  out  with  them  all, 

Though  I  'm  neither  a  lark  nor  a  linnet. 

GRACE  DENIO  LITCH FIELD. 


THE   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

WITHIN  my  life  another  life  runs  deep, 
To  which,  at  blessed  seasons,  open  wide 
Silent,  mysterious  portals.     There  reside 
These  shapes  that  cautiously  about  me  creep, 
This  iron  mask  of  birth,  and  death,  and  sleep, 
Familiar  as  the  day  and  open-eyed ; 


170  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

And  there  broods  endless  calm.    And  though  it  glide 
Ofttimes  beyond  my  sight,  and  though  I  keep 
Its  voice  no  more,  I  know  the  current  flows 
Pulsing  to  far-off  harmonies,  and  light 
With  most  unearthly  heavens.     The  world  but  throws 
A  passing  spell  thereon,  as  winter  bright, 
Pale  feudatory  of  the  arctic  night, 
Swathes  with   white    silence    all    these    murmurous 
boughs. 

ANNE  WHITNEY. 


THE   DEEPER  THOUGHT. 

BELOW  the  surface  stream,  shallow  and  light, 
Of  what  we  say  we  feel,  —  below  the  stream, 
As  light,  of  what  we  think  we  feel,  —  there  flows 
With  noiseless  current,  strong,  obscure,  and  deep, 
The  central  stream  of  what  we  feel  indeed. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


THE  APOLOGY. 

me  not  unkind  and  rude 
-»•      That  I  walk  alone  in  grove  and  glen ; 
I  go  to  the  god  of  the  wood 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 

Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook ; 
Each  cloud  that  floated  in  the  sky 

Writes  a  letter  in  my  book. 


WHO  KNOWS?  I/I 

Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 

For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought; 
Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 

But  't  is  figured  in  the  flowers, 
Was  never  secret  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 

One  harvest  from  thy  field 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong; 
A  second  crop  thine  acres  yield, 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


WHO   KNOWS? 
From  " Amours  de  Voyage" 

SHALL  we  come  out  of  it  all  some  day,  as  one  does 
from  a  tunnel  ? 

Will  it  be  all  at  once,  without  our  doing  or  asking, 
We  shall  behold  clear  day,  the  trees  and  meadows 

about  us, 
And  the   faces  of  friends,  and  the  eyes   we   loved 

looking  at  us  ? 

Who  knows?     Who  can  say?      It  will   not  do   to 
suppose  it. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 


172  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


THE   TRAIL  OF  THE   BUGLES. 

TN  early  fall, 

A    When  the  world  is  still, 

There  comes  a  call 

By  river  and  hill,  — 

A  breath  of  the  passion 
Of  wilding  land, 
No  lips  can  fashion, 
No  heart  withstand. 

The  scarlet  cry 
Of  a  bugle's  wail 
Goes  fading  by 
On  a  lonely  trail ; 

And  the  heart  of  the  year 
Is  braced  and  set 
In  battle  gear 
For  the  ages  yet. 

Once  through  the  arch 
Of  the  autumn  wood 
I  saw  the  march 
Of  a  giant  brood. 

I  heard  no  tread 
Of  the  warriors  there, 
But  the  hills  were  red 
With  the  bugles'  blare. 


THE    TRAIL   OF  THE  BUGLES.          173 

On  the  shadowy  quest 
That  is  never  done 
They  strode  abreast 
Of  the  wheeling  sun. 

With  no  retreat, 
Through  the  hazy  flume 
They  marched  to  beat 
At  the  gates  of  doom  ; 

For  these  we/»fe  they 
Whom  glory  sealed 
In  the  brunt  of  the  fray 
On  sombre  field. 

By  a  goblin  road, 
Where  the  crimson  line 
Of  maples  glowed 
In  the  deep  blue  pine, 

Throng  upon  throng 
They  gathered  and  grew; 
And  all  day  long 

On  the  hills  they  blew. 

» 

And  ever  I  dream 
Of  a  host  since  then, 
And  the  moving  gleam 
Of  marching  men. 

My  heart  is  hot 
With  the  bugles'  cry; 
And,  tiring  not, 
Though  the  world  go  by. 


174  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Possessed  and  wild, 
I  must  on  and  on 
Like  a  marching  child 
With  the  warriors  wan. 

BLISS  CARMAN. 


WHAT   MIGHT   BE   DONE. 

WHAT  might  be  done,  if  men  were  wise, 
What  glorious  deeds,  my  suffering  brother, 
Would  they  unite 
In  love  and  right, 
And  cease  their  scorn  of  one  another  ? 

Oppression's  heart  might  be  imbued 
With  kindling  drops  of  loving-kindness, 
And  knowledge  pour, 
From  shore  to  shore, 
Light  on  the  eyes  of  mental  blindness. 

All  slavery,  warfare,  lies,  and  wrongs, 
All  vice  and  crime  might  die  together; 
And  wine  and  corn, 
To  each  man  born, 
Be  free  as  warmth  in  summer  weather. 

The  meanest  wretch  that  ever  trod, 
The  deepest  sunk  in  guilt  and  sorrow, 

Might  stand  erect 

In  self-respect, 
And  share  the  teeming  world  to-morrow. 


FLOWERS   WITHOUT  FRUIT.  1 

What  might  be  done?    This  might  be  done, 
And  more  than  this,  my  suffering  brother,  — 
More  than  the  tongue 
E'er  said  or  sung, 
If  men  were  wise  and  loved  each  other. 

CHARLES  MACKAY* 


FLOWERS   WITHOUT   FRUIT. 

T)RUNE  thou  thy  words,  the  thoughts  control 

That  o'er  thee  swell  and  throng ; 
They  will  condense  within  thy  soul, 
And  change  to  purpose  strong. 

But  he  who  lets  his  feelings  run 

In  soft,  luxurious  flow, 
Shrinks  when  hard  service  must  be  done, 

And  faints  at  every  woe. 

Faith's  meanest  deed  more  favor  bears, 
Where  hearts  and  wills  are  weighed, 

Than  brightest  transports,  choicest  prayers, 
Which  bloom  their  hour  and  fade. 

JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN. 


176  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


JESUS    THE  CARPENTER. 

IS  N'T  this  Joseph's  son  ?    Ay,  it  is  he ; 
Joseph,  the  carpenter,  —  same  trade  as  me. 
I  thought  as  I  'd  find  it,  —  I  knew  it  was  here,  — 
But  my  sight 's  getting  queer. 

I  don't  know  right  where  as  his  shed  must  ha*  stood; 
But  often,  as  I  've  been  a-planing  my  wood, 
I  've  took  off  my  hat  just  with  thinking  of  he 
At  the  same  work  as  me. 

He  warn't  that  set  up  that  he  could  n't  stoop  down 
And  work  in  the  country  for  folks  in  the  town ; 
And  I  Ml  warrant  he  felt  a  bit  pride,  like  I  Ve  done, 
At  a  good  job  begun. 

The  parson  he  knows  that  1 11  not  make  too  free ; 
But  on  Sunday  I  feels  as  pleased  as  can  be 
When  I  wears  my  clean  smock,  and  sits  in  a  pew, 
And  has  thoughts  not  a  few. 

I  think  of  as  how  not  the  parson  hissen, 
As  is  teacher  and  father  and  shepherd  o'  men,  — 
Not  he  knows  as  much  of  the  Lord  in  that  shed 
Where  he  earned  his  own  bread. 

And  when  I  goes  home  to  my  missus,  says  she, 

"  Are  you  wanting  your  key  ?  " 

For  she  knows  my  queer  ways  and  my  love  for  the 

shed 
(We  Ve  been  forty  years  wed). 


AT   JOSEPH'S    BENCH. 
From  the  painting,  "  The  Infancy  of  Christ''  by  //.  Hoffmann. 


AT  JOSEPHS  BENCH.  177 

So  I  comes  right  away  by  myself  with  the  Book, 
And  I  turns  the  old  pages,  and  has  a  good  look 
For  the  text  as  I  Ve  found  as  tells  me  as  he 
Were  the  same  trade  as  me. 


Why  don't  I  mark  it  ?    Ah,  many  says  so. 
But  I  think  I  'd  as  lief,  with  your  leave,  let  it  go ; 
It  do  seem  that  nice  when  I  fall  on  it  sudden,  — 
Unexpected,  y'  know. 

CATHERINE  C.  LIDDELL 


AT  JOSEPH'S   BENCH. 

OLORD !  at  Joseph's  humble  bench 
Thy  hands  did  handle  saw  and  plane, 
Thy  hammer  nails  did  drive  and  clench, 
Avoiding  knot,  and  humoring  grain. 

That  thou  didst  seem  thou  wast  indeed ; 

In  sport  thy  tools  thou  didst  not  use, 
Nor,  helping  hind's  nor  fisher's  need, 

The  laborer's  hire,  too  nice,  refuse. 

Lord,  might  I  be  but  as  a  saw, 

A  plane,  a  chisel,  in  thy  hand  I 
No,  Lord !  I  take  it  back  in  awe ; 

Such  prayer  for  me  is  far  too  grand. 

12 


178  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

I  pray,  O  Master !  let  me  lie 
As  on  thy  bench  the  favored  wood ; 

Thy  saw,  thy  plane,  thy  chisel  ply, 
And  work  me  into  something  good. 

No,  no ;  ambition,  holy-high, 
Urges  for  more  than  both  to  pray: 

Come  in,  O  gracious  Force !  I  cry ; 
O  Workman,  share  my  shed  of  clay ! 

Then  I,  at  bench,  or  desk,  or  oar, 
With  last  or  needle,  net  or  pen, 

As  thou  in  Nazareth  of  yore, 
Shall  do  the  Father's  will  again. 

GEORGE  MACDONALD. 


A  PRAYER. 

MAKER  of  the  human  heart, 
Scorn  not  thou  thine  own  creation; 
Onward  guide  its  nobler  part, 

Train  it  for  its  high  vocation ; 
From  the  long-infected  grain 
Cleanse  and  purge  each  sinful  stain ; 
Kindle  with  a  kindred  fire 
Every  good  and  great  desire. 

When  in  ruin  and  in  gloom 

Falls  to  dust  our  earthly  mansion, 

Give  us  ample  verge  and  room 
For  the  measureless  expansion ; 


THE    WILL.  179 

Clear  our  clouded  mental  sight 
To  endure  thy  piercing  light ; 
Open  wide  our  narrow  thought 
To  embrace  thee  as  we  ought. 

When  the  shadows  melt  away, 
And  the  eternal  day  is  breaking, 

Judge  most  just,  be  thou  our  stay 
In  that  strange  and  solemn  waking. 

Thou  to  whom  the  heart  sincere 

Is  thy  best  of  temples  here, 

May  thy  faithfulness  and  love 

Be  our  long,  last  home  above. 

ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 


THE  WILL. 

BLAME  not  the  times  in  which  we  live, 
Nor  Fortune,  frail  and  fugitive; 
Blame  not  thy  parents,  nor  the  rule 
Of  vice  or  wrong  once  learned  at  school ; 
But  blame  thyself,  O  man ! 

Although  both  heaven  and  earth  combined 
To  mould  thy  flesh  and  form  thy  mind ; 
Though  every  thought,  word,  action,  will, 
Was  framed  by  powers  beyond  thee,  —  still 
Thou  art  thyself,  O  man ! 


I  SO  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

And  self  to  take  or  leave  is  free, 
Feeling  its  own  sufficiency; 
In  spite  of  science,  spite  of  fate, 
The  judge  within  thee  soon  or  late 
Will  blame  but  thee,  O  man ! 

Say  not,  "  I  would,  but  could  not.    He 
Should  bear  the  blame  who  fashioned  me. 
Call  you  mere  change  of  motive  choice  ?  " 
Scorning  such  pleas,  the  inner  voice 

Cries,  "  Thine  the  deed,  O  man ! " 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


OPPOSITION. 

OF  fret,  of  dark,  of  thorn,  of  chill, 
Complain  no  more ;  for  these,  O  heart, 
Direct  the  random  of  thy  will 

As  rhymes  direct  the  rage  of  art. 

The  lute's  fixt  fret,  that  runs  athwart 

The  strain  and  purpose  of  the  string, 

For  governance  and  nice  consort 
Doth  bar  his  wilful  wavering. 

The  dark  hath  many  dear  avails ; 

The  dark  distils  divinest  dews ; 
The  dark  is  rich  with  nightingales, 

With  dreams,  and  with  the  heavenly  Muse. 


COURAGE.  l8l 

Bleeding  with  thorns  of  petty  strife, 
I  '11  ease  (as  lovers  do)  my  smart 

With  sonnets  to  my  lady  Life, 

Writ  red  in  issues  from  the  heart. 

What  grace  may  lie  within  the  chill 

Of  favor  frozen  fast  in  scorn  ! 
When  Good 's  a-freeze,  we  call  it  111; 

This  rosy  time  is  glacier-born. 

Of  fret,  of  dark,  of  thorn,  of  chill, 

Complain  thou  not,  O  heart;  for  these 

Bank  in  the  current  of  the  will 
To  uses,  arts,  and  charities. 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 


COURAGE. 

HAST  thou  made  shipwreck  of  thy  happiness  ? 
Yet,  if  God  please, 
Thou  'It  find  thee  some  small  haven,  none  the  less, 

In  nearer  seas, 

Where  thou  mayst  sleep  for  utter  weariness, 
If  not  for  ease. 

The  port  thou  dream'dst  of  thou  shalt  never  reach, 

Though  gold  its  gates, 
And  wide  and  fair  the  silver  of  its  beach ; 

For  sorrow  waits 
To  pilot  all  whose  arms  too  far  outreach, 

Toward  darker  straits. 


1 82  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Yet  so  no  soul  divine  thou  art  astray; 

On  this  cliffs  crown 
Plant  thou  a  victor  flag  ere  breaks  the  day 

Across  night's  brown, 
And  none  shall  guess  it  doth  but  point  the  way 

Where  a  bark  went  down. 

GRACE  DENIO  LITCHFIELD. 


THROUGH   LIFE. 

WE  slight  the  gifts  that  every  season  bears, 
And  let  them  fall  unheeded  from  our  grasp, 
In  our  great  eagerness  to  reach  and  clasp 
The  promised  treasure  of  the  coming  years. 

Or  else  we  mourn  some  great  good  passed  away, 
And,  in  the  shadow  of  our  grief  shut  in, 
Refuse  the  lesser  good  we  yet  might  win, 

The  offered  peace  and  gladness  of  to-day. 

So  through  the  chambers  of  our  life  we  pass, 
And  leave  them,  one  by  one,  and  never  stay,  — 

Not  knowing  how  much  pleasantness  there  was 

In  each  until  the  closing  of  the  door 
Has  sounded  through  the  house,  and  died  away, 

And  in  our  hearts  we  sigh,  "  Forevermore." 

CHAMBERS'S  JOURNAL. 


THE  CITY  IN  SPRING.  183 


THE   CITY   IN   SPRING. 

IT  is  not  much  that  makes  me  glad: 
I  hold  more  than  I  ever  had ; 
The  empty  hand  may  farther  reach, 
And  small,  sweet  signs  all  beauty  teach. 

I  like  the  city  in  the  spring; 
It  has  a  hint  of  everything. 
Down  in  the  yard  I  like  to  see 
The  budding  of  that  single  tree, 

The  little  sparrows  on  the  shed, 
The  scrap  of  soft  sky  overhead, 
The  cat  upon  the  sunny  wall,  — 
There 's  so  much  meant  among  them  all. 

The  dandelion  in  the  cleft 
A  broken  pavement  may  have  left, 
Is  like  a  star  that,  still  and  sweet, 
Shines  where  the  housetops  almost  meet. 

I  like  a  little ;  all  the  rest 
Is  somewhere,  and  the  Lord  knows  best 
How  the  whole  robe  hath  grace  for  them 
Who  only  touch  the  garment's  hem. 

ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 


1 84  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


A  RECOMPENSE. 

DEEPER  my  grief  than  I  can  say! 
A  thought  is  with  me  all  the  day, 
A  thought  that  will  not  go  away,  — 

That  if  my  watchful  care  had  been 
More  tender,  and  had  hedged  him  in 
The  golden  bars  of  Love  between, 

The  Stranger,  on  his  silent  way, 
The  Stranger  in  the  garments  gray, 
Had  passed  my  darling  by  that  day,  — 

Had  spared  the  little  life.    And  yet, 
If  all  to  future  moan  and  fret 
The  current  of  his  days  had  set, 

Could  I  be  thankful  ?    Nay,  not  so; 
Better  the  tentlet  green  and  low, 
Sweeter  this  truth  that  now  I  know. 

I  would  not  give  so  sweet  a  thing, 
The  shadow  of  my  baby's  wing, 
For  all  the  purples  of  a  king. 

I  would  not  give  the  shining  grace 
That  lingered  on  his  fair,  wee  face, 
For  all  the  gifts  of  pride  or  place ; 

The  memory  of  his  joyous  weeks 
For  all  the  bliss  a  lover  seeks, 
For  all  the  lore  a  scholar  speaks. 


DOWN  THE  DARK  FUTURE.  185 

So  go  your  way ;  I  am  content, 
Remembering  him  without  lament 
For  the  brief  space  that  he  was  lent. 

MRS.  D.  H.  CLARK. 


IS   IT  SO   SMALL  A  THING? 

IS  it  so  small  a  thing 
To  have  enjoyed  the  sun, 
To  have  lived  light  in  the  spring, 
To  have  loved,  to  have  thought,  to  have  done, 
To  have  advanced  true  friends  and  beat  down  baffling 

foes, 

That  we  must  feign  a  bliss 
Of  doubtful  future  date, 
And,  while  we  dream  on  this, 
Lose  all  our  present  state, 
And  delegate  to  worlds  yet  distant  our  repose  ? 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


DOWN   THE   DARK   FUTURE. 

LONG  do  the  eyes  that  look  from  heaven  see 
Time  smoke,  as  in  the  spring  the  mulberry-tree, 
With  buds  of  battles  opening  fitfully, 
Till  Yorktown's  winking  vapors  slowly  fade, 
And  Time's  full  top  casts  down  a  pleasant  shade 
Where  Freedom  lies  unarmed  and  unafraid. 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 


186  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


THE  TWO  WAITINGS. 
I. 

DEAR  hearts,  you  were  waiting  a  year  ago 
For  the  glory  to  be  revealed ; 
You  were  wondering  deeply,  with  bated  breath, 
What  treasure  the  days  concealed. 

Oh,  would  it  be  this,  or  would  it  be  that  ? 

Would  it  be  girl  or  boy  ? 
Would  it  look  like  father  or  mother  most  ? 

And  what  should  you  do  for  joy  ? 

And  then  one  day,  when  the  time  was  full, 

And  the  spring  was  coming  fast, 
The  tender  grace  of  a  life  out-bloomed, 

And  you  saw  your  baby  at  last. 

Was  it  or  not  what  you  had  dreamed  ? 

It  was,  and  yet  it  was  not ; 
But,  oh,  it  was  better  a  thousand  times 

Than  ever  you  wished  or  thought ! 

n. 

And  now,  dear  hearts,  you  are  waiting  again. 

While  the  spring  is  coming  fast ; 
For  the  baby  that  was  a  future  dream 

Is  now  a  dream  of  the  past,  — 


THOUGH  ALL    GREAT  DEEDS.          l8/ 

A  dream  of  sunshine  and  all  that 's  sweet, 

Of  all  that  is  pure  and  bright ; 
Of  eyes  that  were  blue  as  the  sky  by  day, 

And  as  soft  as  the  stars  by  night. 

You  are  waiting  again  for  the  fulness  of  time, 

And  the  glory  to  be  revealed ; 
You  are  wondering  deeply,  with  aching  hearts, 

What  treasure  is  now  concealed. 

Oh,  will  she  be  this,  or  will  she  be  that  ? 

And  what  will  there  be  in  her  face 
That  will  tell  you  sure  that  she  is  your  own 

When  you  meet  in  the  heavenly  place  ? 

As  it  was  before,  it  will  be  again : 

Fashion  your  dream  as  you  will ; 
When  the  veil  is  rent,  and  the  glory  is  seen, 

It  will  more  than  your  hope  fulfil. 

JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK. 


THOUGH  ALL  GREAT  DEEDS. 

'T^HOUGH  all  great  deeds  were  proved  but  fables 
fine; 

Though  earth's  old  story  could  be  told  anew; 

Though  the  sweet  fashions  loved  of  them  that  sue 
Were  empty  as  the  ruined  Delphian  shrine; 


1 88  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Though  God  did  never  man,  in  words  benign, 

With  sense  of  his  great  Fatherhood  endue ; 

Though  life  immortal  were  a  dream  untrue, 
And  he  that  promised  it  were  not  divine ; 
Though  soul,  though  spirit  were  not,  and  all  hope 

Reaching  beyond  the  bourne  melted  away ; 
Though  virtue  had  no  goal  and  good  no  scope, 

But  both  were  doomed  to  end  with  this,  our  day ; 
Though  all  these  were  not,  to  the  ungraced  heir 
Would  this  remain,  —  to  live  as  though  they  were. 

JEAN  INGELOW. 


SOMEWHERE,  SURELY. 
From  "f*  Rugby  Chapd." 

O  STRONG  soul,  by  what  shore 
Tarriest  thou  now  ?    For  that  force, 
Surely,  has  not  been  left  vain ! 
Somewhere,  surely,  afar, 
In  the  sounding  labor-house  vast 
Of  being,  is  practised  that  strength, 
Zealous,  beneficent,  firm ! 

Yes,  in  some  far-shining  sphere, 
Conscious  or  not  of  the  past, 
Still  thou  performest  the  word 
Of  the  spirit  in  whom  thou  dost  live, 
Prompt,  unwearied,  as  here. 


SOMEWHERE,  SURELY.  189 

Still  thou  upraisest  with  zeal 
The  humble  good  from  the  ground, 
Sternly  repressest  the  bad ; 
Still,  like  a  trumpet,  dost  rouse 
Those  who  with  half-open  eyes 
Tread  the  borderland  dim 
'Twixt  vice  and  virtue,  reviv'st, 
Succorest.     This  was  thy  work, 
This  was  thy  life  upon  earth. 

And  through  thee  I  believe 

In  the  noble  and  great  who  are  gone  ? 

Pure  souls,  honored  and  blest 

By  former  ages,  who  else  — 

Such,  so  soul-less,  so  poor, 

Is  the  race  of  men  whom  I  see  — 

Seemed  but  a  dream  of  the  heart, 

Seemed  but  a  cry  of  desire. 

Yes,  I  believe  that  there  lived 

Others  like  thee  in  the  past, 

Not  like  the  men  of  the  crowd 

Who  all  round  me  to-day 

Bluster  or  cringe,  and  make  life 

Hideous,  and  arid,  and  vile ; 

But  souls  tempered  with  fire, 

Fervent,  heroic,  and  good, 

Helpers  and  friends  of  mankind. 

Servants  of  God  !  —  or  sons 
Shall  I  not  call  you  ?  because 
Not  as  servants  ye  knew 
Your  Father's  innermost  mind, 


IQO  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

His,  who  unwillingly  sees 
One  of  his  little  ones  lost,  — 
Yours  is  the  praise  if  mankind 
Hath  not  as  yet  in  its  march 
Fainted,  and  fallen,  and  died. 

See !  in  the  rocks  of  the  world 

Marches  the  host  of  mankind, 

A  feeble,  wavering  line. 

Where  are  they  tending  ?    A  God 

Marshalled  them,  gave  them  their  goal. 

Ah,  but  the  way  is  so  long ! 

Years  they  have  been  in  the  wild ! 

Sore  thirst  plagues  them ;  the  rocks, 

Rising  all  round,  overawe ; 

Factions  divide  them ;  their  host 

Threatens  to  break,  to  dissolve. 

Ah,  keep,  keep  them  combined ! 

Else,  of  the  myriads  who  fill 

That  army,  not  one  shall  arrive ; 

Sole  they  shall  stray ;  on  the  rocks 

Batter  forever  in  vain, 

Die  one  by  one  in  the  waste. 

Then  in  such  hour  of  need 
Of  your  failing,  dispirited  race, 
Ye,  like  angels,  appear ; 
Radiant  with  ardor  divine, 
Beacons  of  hope,  ye  appear. 
Languor  is  not  in  your  heart, 
Weakness  is  not  in  your  word, 
Weariness  not  on  your  brow. 


FOUNDLING    GIRLS. 
From  the  painting  by  Mrs.  Anderson. 


LIFE  AND  SONG.  IQI 

Ye  alight  in  our  van !     At  your  voice, 
Panic,  despair,  flee  away. 
Ye  move  through  the  ranks,  recall 
The  stragglers,  refresh  the  outworn, 
Praise,  reinspire  the  brave. 
Order,  courage,  return ; 
Eyes  rekindling,  and  prayers, 
Follow  your  steps  as  ye  go. 
Ye  fill  up  the  gaps  in  our  files, 
Strengthen  the  wavering  line, 
Stablish,  continue  our  march, 
On  to  the  bounds  of  the  waste, 
On  to  the  City  of  God. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


LIFE   AND   SONG. 

IF  life  were  caught  by  a  clarionet, 
And  a  wild  heart,  throbbing  in  the  reed, 
Should  thrill  its  joy  and  trill  its  fret, 
And  utter  its  heart  in  every  deed, 

Then  would  this  breathing  clarionet 
Type  what  the  poet  fain  would  be 

For  none  of  the  singers  ever  yet 
Has  wholly  lived  his  minstrelsy, 

Or  clearly  sung  his  true,  true  thought, 

Or  utterly  bodied  forth  his  life, 
Or  out  of  life  and  song  has  wrought 

The  perfect  one  of  man  and  wife, 


IQ2  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Or  lived  and  sung,  that  Life  and  Song 
Might  each  express  the  other's  all, 

Careless  if  life  or  art  were  long, 
Since  both  were  one,  to  stand  or  fall: 

So  that  the  wonder  struck  the  crowd, 
Who  shouted  it  about  the  land : 

His  song  was  only  living  aloud, 
His  work,  a  singing  with  his  hand ! 

SIDNEY  LAMER. 


UNDER  THE   CLOUD. 

O  BEAUTEOUS  things  of  earth! 
I  cannot  feel  your  worth 
To-day. 

O  kind  and  constant  friend ! 
Our  spirits  cannot  blend 
Today. 

0  Lord  of  truth  and  grace ! 

1  cannot  see  Thy  face 

To-day. 

A  shadow  on  my  heart 
Keeps  me  from  all  apart 
To-day. 

Yet  something  in  me  knows 
How  fair  creation  glows 
Today. 


LOVE.  193 

And  something  makes  me  sure 
That  love  is  not  less  pure 
To-day. 

And  that  th'  Eternal  Good 
Minds  nothing  of  my  mood 
To-day. 

For  when  the  sun  grows  dark, 
A  sacred,  secret  spark 
Shoots  rays. 

Fed  from  a  hidden  bowl, 
A  lamp  burns  in  my  soul 
All  days. 

CHARLES  G.  AMES. 


LOVE. 

TO  love  and  seek  return, 
To  ask  but  only  this, 
To  feel  where  we  have  poured  our  heart 
The  spirit's  answering  kiss ; 
To  dream  that  now  our  eyes 
The  brightening  eyes  shall  meet, 
And  that  the  word  we  Ve  listened  for 
Our  hungering  ears  shall  greet,  — 
How  human  and  how  sweet ! 

To  love  nor  find  return, 
Our  hearts  poured  out  in  vain, 
No  brightening  look,  no  answering  tone, 
Left  lonely  with  our  pain ; 


194  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

The  opened  heavens  closed, 
Night  when  we  looked  for  morn, 
The  unfolding  blossom  harshly  chilled, 
Hope  slain  as  soon  as  born,  — 
How  bitter,  how  forlorn 

To  love  nor  ask  return, 

To  accept  our  solitude ; 
Not  now  for  others*  love  to  yearn, 

But  only  for  their  good ; 

To  joy  if  they  are  crowned, 

Though  thorns  our  head  entwine, 
And  in  the  thought  of  blessing  them 

All  thought  of  self  resign,  — 
How  godlike,  how  divine! 

SAMUEL  LONGFELLOW. 


SILENT   PRAYER. 

SELDOM  upon  lips  of  mine, 
Father !  rests  that  name  of  thine : 
Deep  within  my  inmost  breast, 
In  the  secret  place  of  mind, 
Doth  the  dread  idea  rest 
Hushed  and  holy  dwells  it  there, 
Prompter  of  the  silent  prayer, 
Lifting  up  my  spirit's  eye, 
And  its  faint  but  earnest  cry 
From  its  dark  and  cold  abode, 
Unto  thee,  my  guide  and  God ! 

AFTER  LAMARTINE. 


CROSSING   THE  BAR.  195 

LIFE.       * 

FORENOON  and  afternoon  and  night,  forenoon 
And  afternoon  and  night,  forenoon  and  —  what  ? 
The  empty  song  repeats  itself.     No  more  ? 
Yea,  this  is  Life :  make  this  forenoon  sublime, 
This  afternoon  a  psalm,  this  night  a  prayer, 
And  Time  is  conquered,  and  thy  crown  is  won. 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 


CROSSING  THE   BAR. 

0  UNSET  and  evening  star, 
*~J     And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 

And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar 
When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell 

When  I  embark; 

For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 
The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 

1  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 
When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


196  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 


BEATI    ILLI. 

BLEST  is  the  man  whose  heart  and  hands  are  pure ! 
He  hath  no  sickness  that  he  shall  not  cure, 
No  sorrow  that  he  may  not  well  endure ; 
His  feet  are  steadfast,  and  his  hope  is  sure. 

Oh,  blest  is  he  who  ne'er  hath  sold  his  soul ; 
Whose  will  is  perfect,  and  whose  word  is  whole ; 
Who  hath  not  paid  to  common  sense  the  toll 
Of  self-disgrace,  nor  owned  the  world's  control ! 

Through  clouds  and  shadows  of  the  darkest  night 
He  will  not  lose  a  glimmering  of  the  light, 
Nor,  though  the  sun  of  day  be  shrouded  quite, 
Swerve  from  the  narrow  path  to  left  or  right. 

JOHN  ADDINOTON  SYMONDS. 


TO-DAY. 

LO,  here  hath  been  dawning  another  blue  day; 
Think,  wilt  thou  let  it  slip  useless  away  ? 

Out  of  eternity  this  new  day  is  born, 
Into  eternity  at  night  will  return. 

Behold  it  aforetime  no  eye  ever  did ; 
So  soon  it  forever  from  all  eyes  is  hid. 

Here  hath  been  dawning  another  blue  day; 
Think,  wilt  thou  let  it  slip  useless  away  ? 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


FAREWELL.  197 


ON   LIFE'S   ROUGH   SEA. 

GIVE  me  a  spirit  that  on  this  life's  rough  sea 
Loves  to  have  his  sails  filled  with  a  lusty  wind, 
Even  till  his  sail-yards  tremble,  his  masts  crack, 
And  his  rapt  ship  runs  on  her  side  so  low 
That  she  drinks  water,  and  her  keel  ploughs  air. 
There  is  no  danger  to  a  man  that  knows 
What  life  and  death  is,  —  there  's  not  any  law 
Exceeds  his  knowledge ;  neither  is  it  lawful 
That  he  should  stoop  to  any  other  law. 

GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 


FAREWELL. 

THOU  goest ;  to  what  distant  place 
Wilt  thou  thy  sunlight  carry  ? 
I  stay  with  cold  and  clouded  face ; 

How  long  am  I  to  tarry  ? 
Where'er  thou  goest  morn  will  be ; 
Thou  leavest  night  and  gloom  to  me. 

The  night  and  gloom  I  can  but  take ; 

I  do  not  grudge  thy  splendor ; 
Bid  souls  of  eager  men  awake, 

Be  kind  and  bright  and  tender. 
Give  day  to  other  worlds ;  for  me 
It  must  suffice  to  dream  of  thee. 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


198  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

EN  VOYAGE. 

WHICHEVER  way  the  wind  doth  blow, 
Some  heart  is  glad  to  have  it  so ; 
Then  blow  it  east  or  blow  it  west, 
The  wind  that  blows,  that  wind  is  best. 

My  little  craft  sails  not  alone ; 

A  thousand  fleets  from  every  zone 

Are  out  upon  a  thousand  seas ; 

And  what  for  me  were  favoring  breeze 

Might  dash  another  with  the  shock 

Of  doom  upon  some  hidden  rock. 

And  so  I  do  not  dare  to  pray 

For  winds  to  waft  me  on  my  way, 

But  leave  it  to  a  Higher  Will 

To  stay  or  speed  me,  trusting  still 

That  all  is  well,  and  sure  that  He 

Who  launched  my  bark  will  sail  with  me 

Through  storm  and  calm,  and  will  not  fail, 

Whatever  breezes  may  prevail, 

To  land  me,  every  peril  past, 

Within  his  sheltering  heaven  at  last 

Then,  whatsoever  wind  doth  blow, 
My  heart  is  glad  to  have  it  so ; 
And  blow  it  east  or  blow  it  west, 
The  wind  that  blows,  that  wind  is  best. 

CAROLINE  A.  MASON. 


WAITING.  199 


WAITING. 

SERENE  I  fold  my  arms  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  or  tide,  or  sea; 
I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate, 
For,  lo,  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays ; 

For  what  avails  this  eager  pace? 
I  stand  amid  the  eternal  ways, 

And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day, 
The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me ; 

No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astray, 
Nor  change  the  tide  of  destiny. 

What  matter  if  I  stand  alone  ? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years ; 
My  heart  shall  reap  where  it  has  sown, 

And  garner  up  its  fruit  of  tears. 

The  waters  know  their  own,  and  draw 
The  brook  that  springs  in  yonder  height; 

So  flows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delight. 

The  floweret  nodding  in  the  wind 

Is  ready  plighted  to  the  bee; 
And,  maiden,  why  that  look  unkind? 

For,  lo !  thy  lover  seeketh  thee. 


200  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky, 

The  tidal  wave  unto  the  sea; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high, 

Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me. 

JOHN  BURROUGHS. 


SAY    NOT    THE    STRUGGLE    NAUGHT 
AVAILETH. 

SAY  not  the  struggle  naught  availeth, 
The  labor  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 
The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth, 
And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars ; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed, 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 

And  but  for  you  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent  flooding  in  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light ; 

In  front  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly  ! 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 


ONE  GREAT  DESIRE.  2OI 


ANTI-DESPERATION. 

LONG  fed  on  boundless  hopes,  O  race  of  man, 
How  angrily  thou  spurn'st  all  simpler  fare ! 
Christ,  some  one  says,  was  human  as  we  are; 
No  judge  eyes  us  from  heaven,  our  sin  to  scan; 

We  live  no  more  when  we  have  done  our  span. 
"Well,  then,  for  Christ,"  thou  answerest,  "who  can 

care? 

From  sin  which  heaven  records  not,  why  forbear? 
Live  we  like  brutes,  our  life  without  a  plan !  " 

So  answerest  thou ;  but  why  not  rather  say : 

"  Hath  man  no  second  life?     Pitch  this  one  high ! 

Sits  there  no  judge  in  heaven  our  sin  to  see? 

"  More  strictly,  then,  the  inward  judge  obey ! 
Was  Christ  a  man  like  us  ?    Ah,  let  us  try 
If  we,  then,  too,  can  be  such  men  as  he ! " 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD- 


ONE   GREAT   DESIRE. 


to  the  flying  hours,  and  yet 
—  '     Let  one  pure  hope,  one  great  desire, 
Like  song  on  dying  lips  be  set,  — 
That  e'er  we  fall  in  scattered  fire 
Our  hearts  may  lift  the  world's  heart  higher. 


202  THROUGH  LOVE   TO  LIGHT. 

Here  In  these  autumn  months  of  time, 
Before  the  great  New  Year  shall  break, 

Some  little  way  our  feet  should  climb, 
Some  little  mark  our  hands  should  make, 
For  liberty  and  manhood's  sake. 

EDMUND  GOSSE. 


THE  BOOK  OF   MARTYRS. 

READ,  sweet,  how  others  strove, 
Till  we  are  stouter ; 
What  they  renounced, 
Till  we  are  less  afraid ; 
How  many  times  they  bore 
The  faithful  witness, 
Till  we  are  helped 
As  if  a  kingdom  cared. 

Read  then  of  faith 
That  shone  above  the  fagot, 
Clear  strains  of  hymn 
The  river  could  not  drown, 
Brave  names  of  men 
And  celestial  women 
Passed  out  of  record 
Into  renown. 

EMILY  DICKINSON. 


, 


THE    WANDERER.  203 


THE   WANDERER. 

THE  gleam  of  household  sunshine  ends, 
And  here  no  longer  can  I  rest. 
Farewell !    You  will  not  speak,  my  friends, 
Unkindly  of  your  parted  guest. 

Oh,  well  for  him  that  finds  a  friend, 
Or  makes  a  friend,  where'er  he  come, 
And  loves  the  world  from  end  to  end, 
And  wanders  on  from  home  to  home! 

Oh,  happy  he,  and  fit  to  live, 
On  whom  a  happy  home  has  power 
To  make  him  trust  his  life,  and  give 
His  fealty  to  the  halcyon  hour ! 

I  count  you  kind,  I  hold  you  true ; 
But  what  may  follow,  who  can  tell  ? 
Give  me  a  hand  —  and  you  —  and  you  — 
And  deem  me  grateful  —  and  farewell ! 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


PAGE 

A  crowded  life,  where  joy  perennial  starts 98 

"  Allah,  Allah ! "  cried  the  sick  man,  racked  with  pain      .     .  88 

A  man  said  unto  his  angel 131 

A  man  there  came,  whence  none  can  tell 113 

Amid  the  verdure  on  the  prairies  wide 67 

And  if  his  church  be  doubtful,  it  is  sure 133 

And  if  there  be  no  meeting  past  the  grave 72 

And  when  the  wind  in  the  tree-tops  roared 26 

Angel  of  Pain,  I  think  thy  face 69 

Angels  of  Growth,  of  old  in  that  surprise 22 

An  idle  man  I  stroll  at  eve 34 

A  scrap  of  sky 88 

A  shell  upon  the  sounding  sands 20 

A  single  star,  how  bright 40 

As  Life's  unending  column  pours 67 

As  one  who  in  the  hush  of  twilight  hears  ..,,...  90 

As  we  wax  older  on  this  earth      •    *»•».....  50 

As,  when  the  snow  still  on  the  bough  is  clinging      .     .     .     .  100 

A  thoughtful  life  is  a  pleasant  life 130 

At  the  midnight,  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time      ....  73 

Aye,  but  to  die  and  go  we  know  not  where 32 

Because  I  hold  it  sinful  to  despond 115 

Below  the  surface  stream,  shallow  and  light 170 

Beneath  this  starry  arch 167 

Blame  not  the  times  in  which  we  live 179 

Blest  is  the  man  whose  heart  and  hands  are  pure !   .     .     .     .  196 

Brown  heads  and  gold  around  my  knee 137 


206  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Can  this  be  he  whose  morning  footstep  trod 47 

Cling  to  the  flying  hours,  and  yet 201 

Couldst  thou  but  keep  each  noble  thought 92 

Could  we  be  conscious  but  as  dreamers  be 33 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days 8 

Day  by  day  for  her  darlings    ...» 96 

Dear  artists,  ye 156 

Dear  hearts,  you  were  waiting  a  year  ago 186 

-  Death,  the  Egyptian,  melts  and  drinks  the  pearl  "...  98 

Death,  thou  'rt  a  cordial  old  and  rare 161 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep  1 114 

Deeper  my  grief  than  I  can  say ! 184 

Despair  not  thou  as  I  despaired 148 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ? 139 

Doubting  Thomas  and  loving  John 9 

Enamoured  architect  of  airy  rhyme 35 

Ere  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay 12 

"  Faces,  faces,  faces  of  the  streaming,  marching  surge     .    .  66 

Fear  death?—  to  fed  the  fog  in  my  throat 153 

Foiled  by  our  fellow-men,  depressed,  outworn 122 

Forasmuch  as  all  men  worship,  bow  the  head  or  bend  the  knee  28 

Forenoon  and  afternoon  and  night,  forenoon 195 

For  this  is  Lore's  nobility 144 

From  the  eternal  shadow,  rounding 125 

Give  me  a  spirit  that  on  this  life's  rough  sea 197 

God  does  not  send  us  strange  flowers  every  year 146 

Gods  fade ;  but  God  abides,  and  in  man's  heart 27 

God  wills  that  in  a  ring 12 

Great  God,  1  ask  thee  for  no  meaner  pelf 160 

Great,  wide,  beautiful,  wonderful  World 72 

Hast  thou  made  shipwreck  of  thy  happiness  ? 181 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends 2 

Hear  how  the  brooding  cushat  mourns 149 

He  is  the  green  in  every  blade 127 

He  was  a  hero,  fighting  all  alone 37 

He  who  but  yesterday  would  roam 58 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  2O/ 

PAGE 

High  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine 122 

Him  neither  eye  has  seen,  nor  ear  hath  heard 25 

Hope  evermore  and  believe,  O  man;  for  e'en  as  thy  thought  162 

How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive ! 84 

How  calm  upon  the  twilight  water  sleeps 109 

How  doth  Death  speak  of  our  beloved 140 

How  oft,  escaping  from  some  troubled  dream 138 

How  sweet  it  were  if,  without  feeble  fright 155 

How  the  dull  thought  smites  me  dumb 141 

I  am  the  spirit  astir 17 

If  he  could  doubt  on  his  triumphant  cross 72 

If  I  have  sinned  in  act,  I  may  repent 93 

If  life  were  caught  by  a  clarionet 191 

I  give  you  the  end  of  a  golden  string 165 

I  knew  a  captain  girded  by  the  foe 93 

I  loved  my  country  so  as  only  they 4 

I  muse  in  shadow,  knowing  naught 60 

In  an  age  of  fops  and  toys 2 

In  early  fall 172 

In  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 150 

I  said  it  in  the  meadow  path 103 

I  sit  beneath  the  elm's  protecting  shadow 119 

Is  it  so  small  a  thing 185 

Is  n't  this  Joseph's  son  ?    Ay,  it  is  he 176 

Is  there  no  prophet- soul  the  while „     .     .     .  101 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife      .     .     .     .  158 

It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know 155 

I  thank  thee,  Lord,  that  just  to-day 33 

I  think  man's  soul  dwells  nearer  to  the  east 9 

It  is  not  growing,  like  a  tree 3 

It  is  not  much  that  makes  me  glad 183 

I  tremble,  not  with  terror,  but  with  hope 35 

It  singeth  low  in  every  heart 87 

It  were  a  blessed  faith  to  think 105 

I  've  had  my  share  of  pastime,  and  I  've  done  my  share  of  toil  112 

I  vex  me  not  with  brooding  on  the  years 91 


208  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Judge  me  not  as  I  judge  myself,  O  Lord ! 77 

Largess  from  sevenfold  heavens,  I  pray,  descend     ....  164 

Let  me  come  in  where  you  sit  weeping,  —  aye 31 

Let  us  be  like  a  bird,  a  moment  lighted 3 

Living,  our  loved  ones  make  us  what  they  dream     ....  7 

Lo,  here  hath  been  dawning  another  blue  day 196 

Long  do  the  eyes  that  look  from  heaven  see 185 

Long  fed  on  boundless  hopes,  O  race  of  man 201 

Long  looked  for  was  the  summer ;  anxious  eyes      ....  44 

Maker  of  the  human  heart .    .    .    • 178 

Man's  self  is  not  yet  man    ..•• 129 

Many  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's  best  oil 145 

Most  men  know  love  but  as  a  part  of  life 26 

Mother  of  man's  time-travelling  generations 5 

My  child  is  lying  on  my  knees 107 

My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears 21 

My  own  hope  is  a  sun  will  pierce 19 

Mysterious  Night!  when  our  first  parent  knew 128 

Nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean 127 

No  coward  soul  is  mine .    •    • 158 

No  good  is  certain  but  the  steadfast  mind 15 

No  passing  burden  is  our  earthly  sorrow 99 

Not  in  lands  with  a  speech  not  my  own 121 

Not  out  of  any  cloud  or  sky 14 

M  Not  ye  who  have  stoned,  not  ye  who  have  smitten  us,"  cry  45 

Now  gird  thee  well  for  courage no 

Now,  you  who  rhyme,  and  I  who  rhyme 16 

O  beauteous  things  of  earth  I 192 

Of  fret,  of  dark,  of  thorn,  of  chill 180 

Oft  in  the  pleasant  summer  years 52 

Oh,  the  sun  and  the  rain,  and  the  rain  and  the  sun  I     ...  74 

Oh,  well  for  him  whose  will  is  strong  t 1 1 

Oh,  we  're  sunk  enough  here,  God  knows  t 146 

Old  things  need  not  be  therefore  true 165 

O  life,  I  hold  thee  face  to  face 126 

O  life  t  that  mystery  that  no  man  knows 143 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  2OQ 

PAGB 

O  Lord !  at  Joseph's  humble  bench 177 

Only  —  but  this  is  rare — 68 

O  Power  more  near  my  life  than  life  itself      ......  4 

O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore 188 

O  Truth !  O  Freedom  !  how  are  ye  still  born 61 

Our  God  is  never  so  far  off 5 

Out  of  the  dreams  and  the  dust  of  ages 139 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me 97 

Pain  ushered  in  the  sullen  day 144 

Plainness  and  clearness  without  shadow  of  stain  !     .     .    .     .  43 

Prune  thou  thy  words,  the  thoughts  control 175 

Read,  sweet,  how  others  strove 202 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away 164 

Ruby  wine  is  drunk  by  knaves 24 

Say  not  the  struggle  naught  availeth 200 

Seldom  upon  lips  of  mine 194 

Serene  I  fold  my  arms  and  wait 199 

Set  her  among  the  angels  !  let  her  shine  a  star  ! 60 

Shall  we  come  out  of  it  al  1  some  day,  as  one  does  from  a  tunnel  ?  171 

She  passes  in  her  beauty  bright 147 

So  faith  is  strong 96 

Solemn  before  us 161 

Someday:  —  So  many  tearful  eyes 39 

Sometimes,  when  after  spirited  debate 47 

Stainless  soldier  on  the  walls 8 

Stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God ! 75 

Strong-builded  world  of  ancient  days 6 

Sunset  and  evening  star 195 

Surrounded  by  unnumbered  foes 166 

Sweet  hand  that,  held  in  mine 70 

Sweet-voiced  Hope,  thy  fine  discourse 80 

That  blessed  mood 37 

That  eyes  which  pierced  our  inmost  being  through  ....  19 

That  this  shall  be  a  better  year 38 

The  children  gather  at  the  fence 48 

The  faith  that  life  on  earth  is  being  shaped 90 


2 10  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAG* 

The  gleam  of  household  sunshine  ends 203 

The  gods  man  makes  he  breaks ;  proclaims  them  each      .    .  99 

The  man  of  life  upright 157 

There  come  rare  moments  when  we  stir 94. 

There  is  a  city,  builded  by  no  hand 7 

There  is  no  unbelief  ..••••• 109 

There  is  the  window  over  the  way 136 

There 's  nothing  in  the  world,  I  know 8 

There  must  be  refuge !     Men.     .     . 129 

There  was  a  glory  in  my  house 133 

There  was  a  stream,  low-voiced  and  shy 116 

The  voyage  draws  near  its  end ;  the  westering  sun  ....  65 

They  shot  young  Windebank  just  here 152 

They  soon  grow  old  who  grope  for  gold 42 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude 170 

This  I  beheld  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream 59 

This  is  my  creed 124 

This  is  the  night  when  I  must  die 78 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl  which,  poets  feign 46 

This  world  I  deem 85 

Though  all  great  deeds  were  proved  but  fables  fine  .    .    .    .  187 

Though  love  repine  and  reason  chafe 1 1 

Though  Sin  too  oft,  when  smitten  by  Thy  rod 42 

Thougoest;  to  what  distant  place 197 

Though  the  pitcher  that  goes  to  the  sparkling  rill    ....  168 

Through  love  to  light !    Oh,  wonderful  the  way      ....  i 

Thy  glory  alone,  O  God,  be  the  end  of  all  that  I  say    ...  82 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air 128 

'T  is  sweet  to  hear  of  heroes  dead i 

To  Him  who  from  eternity,  self-stirred 83 

To  love  and  seek  return 193 

To  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love 159 

To  walk  with  God !  —  to  feel  no  more  alone 64 

*«  Two  things,"  said  he  of  Kooigsberg 142 

Under  gray  doods  some  bird  will  dare  to  sing 36 

Upon  the  sadness  of  the  sea 63 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  2 1 1 

PAGE 

Upon  the  white  sea  sand 71 

We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 104 

We  know  not  what  it  is,  dear,  this  sleep  so  deep  and  still .    .  57 

Well,  and  how  good  is  life ! 165 

We  men  who  in  the  morn  of  youth  defied 13 

We  slight  the  gifts  that  every  season  bears 182 

What  can  we  do  to  whom  the  unbeholden 86 

What  if  some  morning,  when  the  stars  were  paling     ...  91 

What  is  to  come  we  know  not ;  but  we  know 62 

What  might  be  done,  if  men  were  wise 174 

What,  my  soul  ?  see  thus  far  and  no  farther  ? 49 

What  should  a  man  desire  to  leave  ? 30 

What  thou  hast  done  thou  hast  done ;  for  the  heavenly    .    .  123 

When  from  this  mortal  scene 24 

When  Grief  shall  come  to  thee 32 

When  I  reflect  how  small  a  place  I  fill 163 

When  the  end  comes,  and  we  must  say  good-by 126 

When  thou,  O  Death  !  shalt  wait 36 

When  to  soft  Sleep  we  give  ourselves  away 20 

When  we  have  gone  within  the  veil  that  hides 13 

Where  is  one  that,  born  of  woman,  altogether  can  escape  .     .  29 

Whichever  way  the  wind  doth  blow 198 

Who  drives  the  horses  of  the  sun 44 

Wild,  wandering  clouds,  that  none  can  tame 62 

Within  my  life  another  life  runs  deep 169 

With  us  the  fields  and  rivers 14 

Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 3 

Yes,  the  world  is  big,  but  I  '11  do  my  best 169 


GOLDEN  TREASURY  SERIES 

This  little  series  of  dainty  volumes  of  poetry  fills  a 
long-felt  want.  Each  volume  is  an  anthology  of  the 
best  poetry  in  its  chosen  field  of  sentiment.  They  have 
been  made  possible  only  through  the  courtesy  of  many 
owners  of  copyrighted  poems,  who  have  permitted  their 
use  in  these  collections. 

Each  one  volume,  large  i6mo,  gilt  top,  flat  back, 
deckle-edge  paper,  and  with  an  appropriate  frontispiece 
by  a  prominent  artist. 

Per  volume,  cloth,  decorative  cover  design      .     $1.25 

Per  volume,  three-quarters  levant  morocco       .       2.50 

LIST  OF  TITLES 

The  Golden  Treasury  of  American 

SongS  and    Lyrics.      Edited  by  FREDERIC 
LAWRENCE  KNOWLES. 

Containing  the  choicest  and  most  representative  works 
of  both  the  major  and  the  minor  poets  of  the  country. 

"The  best  collection  of  American  lyric  verse  which  has  yet 
been  made."  —  Barrett  Wendell. 

The  "  Golden  Treasury  "  is  also  bound  in  full  crushed 
levant,  price  ...,»..  $4.00 
The  Same.  Popular  Edition.  Uniform  with  Pal- 
grave's  Golden  Treasury  .  .  .  .  $1.00 

The   Poetry  of  American  Wit  and 

Humour.      Edited  by  R.  L.  PAGET. 

This  volume  of  representative  humorous  verse  has 
become  a  household  favorite. 


GOLDEN  TREASURY  SERIES  (Continued) 

Poems  of  American  Patriotism  PROM 

1776  TO  1898.    Edited  by  R.  L.  PAGET. 

Not  only  a  valuable  anthology,  but  a  history  in  verse 
of  a  great  nation  and  a  monument  of  the  glorious  deeds 
of  the  heroes  and  martyrs  who  have  fallen  in  defence  of 
liberty. 

Through  Love  tO  Light.     Edited  by  JOHN 
WHITE  CHADWICK  and  ANNIE  HATHAWAY  CHAD- 
WICK. 
A  collection  of  noble  verse,  whose  lines  breathe  wis- 

dom, cheerfulness,  and  courage. 

The     TWO     Voices.      Edited    by    JOHN    W 
CHADWICK. 
Poems  of  the  Mountains  and  the  Sea. 


Lady   Sleeps.      Edited    by    KATHARINE 

STEARNS  PAGE. 

A  collection  of  all  the  poetry  that  is  truest  and  best  in 
the  English  language  on  the  subjects  of  Sleep,  Dreams, 
Rest,  and  Bed-time  songs. 

Pipe  and  PoUCh.    Edited  by  JOSEPH  KNIGHT. 

The  smoker's  own  book  of  poetry.  One  that  every 
smoker  that  reads,  and  every  reader  that  smokes,  will 
appreciate.  It  will  be  a  matter  of  surprise  to  most  of 
them  to  find  how  much  poetry  has  been  written  that  is 
clever  and  bright  on  the  theme  of  smoking. 

The  Same.     Bound  in  flexible,  Havana  colored,  ooze 
leather    ........    $2-50 


CAP  AND  GOWN  SERIES 

(TRADE  MARK.) 

Each  one  volume,  large  i6mo,  gilt  top,  flat  back, 
deckle-edge  paper,  and  with  a  frontispiece  from  an 
original  drawing  by  a  well-known  artist. 

Per  volume,  cloth,  with  decorative  cover  design,  $1.25 
Per  volume,  three-fourths  levant  morocco  .         .     2.50 

Cap  and   Gown.       First  Series. 

(TRADE  MARK.) 

Selected  by  J.  L.  HARRISON. 

The  text  of  "  Cap  and  Gown,"  first  series,  comprises 
a  selection  of  the  best  verse  which  has  appeared  in 
twenty-seven  of  the  leading  college  journals  previous  to 
1892. 

Special  editions,  in  cloth,  have  been  bound  in  the 
colors  of  the  following  colleges  : 

HARVARD.  YALE.  PRINCETON. 

UNIVERSITY   OF  PENNSYLVANIA. 

Cap  and    Gown.      Second  Series. 

(TRADE  MARK.) 

Selected  by  FREDERIC  LAWRENCE  KNOWLES. 

The  text  of  "  Cap  and  Gown,"  second  series,  com- 
prises a  selection  of  the  best  verse  which  has  appeared 
in  the  leading  college  journals  from  1892  to  1896. 

Special  editions,  in  cloth,  have  been  bound  in  the 
colors  of  the  following  colleges  : 

HARVARD.  COLUMBIA. 

YALE.  UNIVERSITY  OF  MICHIGAN. 

PRINCETON.  SMITH. 

CORNELL.  UNIVERSITY  OF  PENNSYLVANIA. 

The  two  volumes  above  are  also  sold  in  uniform  cloth 
binding,  neatly  boxed,  price  per  set        .         .     $2.50 


CAP  AND  GOWN  SERIES  (Continued) 

(TKADB  MABK.) 

Cap  and   Gown.      Third  Series. 

(TRADE    MARK.) 

Selected  by  R.  L.  PAGET. 

This  is  a  selection  of  the  most  recent  college  verse, 
none  of  which  has  previously  appeared  in  any  similar 
compilation,  forming  a  companion  volume  to  "  Cap  and 
Gown,"  first  and  second  series. 

Special  editions  art  bound  in  the  colors  of  the  follow- 
ing colleges  : 

HARVARD.  YALE.  PRINCETON. 

UNIVERSITY  OP  PENNSYLVANIA. 

Cap  and  Qown  in  Prose. 

(TRAD«  MARK.) 

Edited  by  R.  L.  PAOET. 

A  companion  volume  to  the  above.  A  compilation  of 
bright  and  witty  sketches  and  short  stories  published  in 
college  periodicals  of  recent  years.  Most  of  the  sketches 
have  to  do  with  experiences  of  undergraduate  life. 

Special  editions  have  been  bound  in  the  colors  of  the 
following  colleges  : 

HARVARD.  YALE.  PRINCETON. 

UNIVERSITY  OP  PENNSYLVANIA. 

Harvard   LyriCS.      Edited  by  C.  L.  STEBBINS. 
One  vol.,  library  I2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  flat  back,  deckle- 
edge  page        .        .        .         .    •    .         .         .5i.oo 
Selections  of  the  best  verse  written  by  Harvard  under- 
graduates within  the  last  ten  years.      The  aim  of  the 
compiler  has  been  to  collect  into  permanent  form  some 
of  the  serious  moods  of  Harvard  students  as  expressed 
in  their  best  verse. 


THE  POEMS  OF 

CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 

Songs  of  the  Common  Day. 
In  Divers  Tones. 
The  Book  of  the  Native. 
New  York  Nocturnes. 

Each,  i  vol.,  i6mo,  cloth,  gilt  top  .  .  .  $1.00 
These  volumes  include  Professor  Roberts's  poems 
from  the  time  of  his  first  recognition  as  a  master  poet. 
The  wondrous  appreciation  of  nature,  the  sensibility  to 
the  poetry  of  men  in  crowds,  the  virile,  exalted  pas- 
sion, the  playfulness,  the  human  perspective,  the  craft, 
and  the  music  of  his  later  volumes,  which  determine  his 
rank,  are  also  seen  in  potent  promise  in  the  earlier 
works. 

"  •  The  Nocturnes '  is  undoubtedly  the  most  promising  of 
recent  American  poetical  productions.  The  execution  is  ex- 
quisite, the  feeling  is  high  and  profound." — The  Evening 
Post. 

"A  collection  of  songs  like  'The  Book  of  the  Native' 
comes  with  the  refreshing  sweetness  of  an  oasis  in  the  desert." 
—  N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  No  one  can  read  this  volume  without  knowing  that  a  true 
poet  has  made  interesting  and  suggestive  to  ordinary  minds 
the  things  of  the  '  Common  Day,'  and  for  this  highest  art  the 
singer  is  crowned."  —  Saturday  Review. 

Just  Published 

Poems  (complete)  of  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS. 
One  vol.,  library  I2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top     .         .     $1.50 
Into  this  volume  are  gathered  together  the  best  of 

Professor  Roberts's  poems.     In  his  own  words  they  are 

«'  all  my  verse  that  I  care  to  preserve." 


POETRY 
On  Life's  Stairway :   A  BOOK  OF  POEMS. 

By  FREDERIC  LAWRENCE  KNOWLES,  editor  of  "  The 
Golden  Treasury  of  American  Songs  and  Lyrics," 
"  Cap  and  Gown,"  etc. 

One  vol.,  large  i6mo,  cloth,  flat  back,  gilt  top,  decora- 
tive cover  design  $1.25 

One  vol.,  three-quarters  morocco       .         .         .     2.50 
Literary   circles   are    already    acquainted    with    Mr. 
Knowles's  graceful  verse,  and  in  putting  forth  this  vol- 
ume the  publishers  believe  that  Mr.  Knowles's  original 
work  will  meet  with  favorable  appreciation. 

"  A  volume  of  verse,  which,  with  all  its  faults,  contains  so 
much  more  than  mere  poetic  promise  that  we  venture  to 
announce  him  (Mr.  Knowles)  as  a  new  American  poet."  — 
Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  in  Mail  and  Express. 

"  The  most  fresh  and  original  book  of  verse  that  has  come 
to  my  hand  in  many  a  year." — John  Burroughs. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  Mr.  Knowles  is  the  real  thing,  —  a 
genuine  poet.  He  has  art,  heart,  thought,  and  imagination. 
.  .  .  Altogether  I  am  delighted  with  this  collection,  and  wish 
it  a  hearty  Godspeed."  —  Richard  Burton. 

"  Let  me  thank  you  for  the  book  of  our  new  true  poet,  Mr. 
Frederic  Lawrence  Knowles.  It  has  so  many  delicious  sur- 
prises. If  there  has  been  written  a  sweeter  little  poem  —  a 
poem  all  pictures  —  than  'The  Moon  and  the  Girl,'  I  have 
not  read  it." — Joaquin  MilUr. 

SongS  Ysame.     By  ANNIE  FELLOWS-JOHNSTON 
and  ALBION  FELLOWS-BACON. 

One  vol.,  crown  1 6mo,  cloth  .  .  .  .  $1.00 
One  vol.,  crown  i6mo,  half  calf  .  .  .  2.00 
A  notable  critic  who  has  seen  these  poems  pronounces 

them  to  be  of  a  high  order  of  merit,  and  it  is  prophesied 

that  this  book  of  verse  will  bring  to  both  writers  an 

ever  widening  circle  of  readers. 


LD  21- 


47(i 


TE    I  1661 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LI3RARY 


